


I want to Snape you like an animal

by Desert_Sea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Smut on the go!, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13381476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desert_Sea/pseuds/Desert_Sea
Summary: Hermione falls for Neville's boggart.





	1. What the Snape are you doing?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWitch/gifts).



> A/N: So I have started an original fic but couldn’t resist having my favourites ticking along in the background. Just a bit of smutty fun after the angst and turmoil of the last few. Hope you enjoy it. DSxx
> 
> P.S. Thanks to Marriage1988 for the inspiration once again.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

“He doesn’t give a fuck . . . look at him.”

Hermione sighed, dropping her spoon back into her soup bowl.

“Neville.” She turned to him, refusing to look at the staff table.

Neville’s mouth was still hanging open, and Hermione was confident enough about the target of his gaze to know that it wasn’t awe that had captured him. It was fear.

“Neville,” she repeated, elbowing him.

“What?” He glanced at her distractedly before immediately resuming his stunned mullet impression. “Did you see him? McGonagall was telling him something, pointing and that, and he just turned his back on her. Like she wasn’t even there. He just doesn’t give a fuck about any of them. Not anymore.”

Hermione had had enough.

With a loud scrape, she pushed her seat back and dismissed her bowl with a wave of her hand.

“Where are you going?” Neville squinted up at her.

“I’m finished. And I have work to do.”

“But you said you’d help.” He leapt up, banging his knee on the table with a groan before stumbling after her.

“I know. But you’re not doing yourself any favours,” she responded tersely. “You’re obsessed with him.”

“I am not obsessed,” Neville insisted, clumsily bending to rub his knee as he tried to keep up with her swift strides.

“You could have fooled me,” she snipped, jogging up the stairs so that he had to clear them two at a time to have any chance of staying with her.

“Hermione!” he gasped, grabbing her arm at the top of the staircase to stop her from charging off altogether. She moved like the wind when she was in a snit.

She whirled around to face him. “You need to let it go,” she snapped. “The past is the past. Nagini all but killed him. And you killed Nagini. There’s no reason for you to fear him. Not anymore.”

“But he’s still my boggart. You know that, don’t you? And it’s going to come up in the exam.”

Hermione’s face contorted in frustration. “But he shouldn’t be. He can’t do anything to you, Neville. He’s a shadow of the man he once was. He nearly died for Merlin’s sake.”

“But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Neville’s voice rose in consternation. “He’s not. He’s not weak. He’s strong—stronger than you think. And without Dumbledore, without Voldemort, he’s free to do whatever he likes. And he doesn’t give a fuck about anything . . . or anyone. That’s why he’s dangerous.”

“He’s NOT dangerous, Neville. You need to stop thinking like that. He’s just a teacher. Like all the others. And we are final year students. We managed to win the war. Now we will pass our N.E.W.Ts and make our way into the big wide world. Just focus on that, on passing your exams. And you must stop talking about Snape.”

“But will you help me?” he pleaded.

Hermione shook her head slightly but his forlorn expression—and Neville could pull off forlornness like no one else—made her acquiesce with a growl. “Alright. But I don’t want to hear you obsessing about him again, do you understand?”

“I’ll . . . do my best,” he mumbled.

She huffed and glanced at her watch. “Meet me in the transfiguration classroom at 8pm. We will use the practice boggart in the cupboard there if it’s free.”

“Excellent.” Neville nodded appreciatively, his strained expression melting with relief. “Grand.”

Hermione gave a small smile. “Just be confident.”

***

“Are you being confident?”

“Er . . . I’m trying to.”

Hermione stood with her arms crossed, a few paces behind him. He appeared to be shaking nearly as much as the cupboard.

“Neville, look at me.”

He turned then and she could see the sheen of sweat on his pale skin.

She approached, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “Remember Dumbledore’s army? Remember all the risks that you took?”

He nodded uncertainly.

“It all worked out, didn’t it? You can do this, Neville. You can defeat anyone.”

He nodded again, but with slightly more conviction.

She sighed then, brow furrowing with concern.

“You know that the final ingredient is laughter, don’t you?” She raked her eyes over him. “You don’t seem to be ready for that at all. In fact, you look far more likely to . . .”

“Shit myself?”  

“Well . . . yes,” she admitted, rubbing her cheek as her lips curled into a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps we should put this off for a while? Give you a chance to calm down?”

He shook his head then—slightly erratically, as though conviction was having a tough job fighting through his fear. “No. I don’t want to wait. I’m not going to be able to sleep until I know I can do it. I’ll just be worrying.”

Hermione raised a palm to him. “Alright,” she conceded. “As I said, I’ll be right behind you. I’ll be giving you advice but you don’t need to take it. This is about you, after all— _your_  fears. But you are also the one who needs to ultimately conquer them.”

He took a deep breath then and turned back to the cupboard.

“Riddikulus . . . riddikulus . . .” he muttered under his breath, wand gripped fiercely in his hand.

“Are you ready?” Hermione focused on the cupboard, feeling suddenly anxious on his behalf.

He nodded. “Go on.”

Planting her feet, Hermione drew a steadying breath before releasing the latch with a twirl of her wand.

Nothing happened.

Neville’s fists opened and closed anxiously.

Still nothing.

“What’s it—?”

Just then there was an eerie creak as something slowly slithered out—a set of long, pale fingers curling around the door frame.

And suddenly he was there.   

All of him.

All in black.

And he was striding towards them.

Hermione couldn’t remember how he’d approached that first time, all those years ago, but there was a definite air of menace to him now. Each solid footfall rang out in warning, his thin lips twisted with obvious displeasure, his jet black irises glittered menacingly, and his considerable frame seemed to rise like a Dementor until he loomed threateningly over them.

Hermione swallowed.

She was wrong.

He was still pretty fucking scary.

But Neville managed to raise his shaking wand and level it at the dark wizard.

“Riddikulus!” he cried.

It came out sounding more like a question than a command.

And the resultant transformation was . . . ridiculous.

It barely even hindered his advance.

“Back up!” Hermione cried.

“I don’t . . . I don’t understand,” Neville stuttered.  

Snape’s new attire might have been that of Neville’s grandmother’s but it didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest, rather he knocked the floppy hat out of his eyes like a cowboy, sauntering towards them on sensible black heels as though they had been made for him.

“I’m not sure that worked,” Hermione called as she retreated behind the desks.

“No fucking joke.” Neville took several faltering steps backwards, keeping his eye on Snape.

“You need to try something else . . . and fast.”

“I told you he doesn’t give a fuck.” Neville’s voice was quaking as he continued to retreat from the dark-haired wizard who, if anything, looked even more furious.

“But you did this,” Hermione insisted. “These are your fears. He’s behaving like this because of you.”

“Then tell me what to do,” Neville cried desperately, backing into a desk and almost toppling over it.

“You need to make him less scary by . . . um . . . by dressing him up as a . . . a clown . . .”

“You think clowns aren’t fucking scary?”

“Okay . . . not that . . . just . . .” Hermione chewed her lip, trying to think. “Alright, I . . . I think I’ve got it . . . he’s got to be naked.”

“What?” Neville squawked.

“Take everything off.”

Glancing around wildly, Neville continued to back around the room. “I can’t,” he whimpered. Then, as Snape closed in, he lifted his wand and gritted his teeth.

Snape was only a pace away.

“Riddikulus!”

Snape stopped.

Neville dropped his wand.

Hermione collapsed back onto the desk behind her. “Merlin’s balls,” she whispered.

They remained that way, gazing at naked Snape in silence, until Hermione finally found her voice. “Did you . . . do that?”

“You what?” Neville jerked around to look at her. “You think I’d give him that if I didn’t want to be intimidated?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So that’s . . . that’s his . . . then? That’s what he . . . really looks like?”

Neville shrugged. “I s’pose.”

“Well . . .” she sighed breathily.

“Well what?” He turned to her again. “What now?”

Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to focus her thoughts. “Well . . . now . . . you have to laugh.”

“At that?” He nodded at Snape who was standing with his hands on his hips looking rather proud of himself.

Hermione understood exactly what he meant. Laughing was the last thing on her mind as her gaze trickled slowly over his significant . . . endowments.

“You may have trouble dismissing him if you don’t,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Neville rolled his eyes. “Thanks very much. Brilliant.”

They stood in awkward silence for a few moments.

Then Hermione pushed herself off the desk. “Maybe I could . . .”

Neville raised an eyebrow as she edged around the side of the room until she was standing behind the naked wizard.

“I’m going to approach. He should remain facing you. There would be no reason for him to turn with you still there,” she said, advancing a few paces.

“What are you doing?” There was a note of caution to Neville’s voice.

“I’m just going to . . .” Her words tailed off as she clamped her bottom lip firmly between her teeth. She was getting close and struggling not to fixate upon the muscular globes of his buttocks.

Shifting her gaze upward, she found herself even more nonplussed, instantly entranced by the taper of his back, the way his muscles flexed faintly beneath the sheen of his porcelain skin like wind thrust into wet sails.

_Was this really Snape? Snape released from the severity of his trappings? Or was this just some figment of Neville’s fertile imagination?_

Whatever he was, by the time she reached him, Hermione was reduced to mouth breathing only. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. Tentatively she extended her hand, placing it on the small of his back. She gasped. His skin was so smooth and warm. Just like a real person.

“Hermione?” Neville still sounded worried.

She let out a sigh then. It was the breath that had lodged in her throat, but this was more than relief. It had been a while since she’d touched anyone like this. She didn’t realise how much she’d missed it.

Lifting her other hand, she placed it on the taper of his waist, just above where his hand was propped.

“What are you going to—”

She tickled him. Just a brief twitch of her fingers into his side.

“How does he look?” she asked.

“He looks like Snape,” Neville replied. “Just a bit less . . . frowny.”

Hermione smiled, her cheek suddenly brushing against his back.

She jerked her head away then. Shocked at how close she had allowed herself to get.

 _Idiot_.

She was there to make Neville laugh, not to nuzzle his boggart.  

Reaching further down Snape’s front with her hand, she located the shaft of his penis. Easily. It was, after all, quite impossible to miss.

The velveteen softness against her palm sent a jolt shuddering through her, instantly parching her throat, such that she had to clear it with a loud hacking cough in order to continue.

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” she announced in her best Snape baritone as she conducted his cock back and forth like a baton, finishing with a final flourish.

Neville snorted loudly. Then choked. And suddenly a shaking peal of laughter rolled from his chest.

“You should see his face!” he cackled. “He’s looking quite put out. Fantastic!”

Hermione reluctantly stepped away.

“That’s right, off you go old man,” Neville jeered, flicking his wand at Snape who was still looking rather baffled as he trudged back to the cupboard.  

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Neville said, grinning and flexing his wand.

“Not at all,” Hermione responded. “Now you just need to ensure that Professor McGonagall is comfortable with allowing a bit of cock waving in her exam.”

Neville’s smile dropped away.

“Fuck it.”


	2. Stop Snape-ing around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey y'all, I’m still here . . . just a bit slow x
> 
> So lovely to hear from all of you wonderfully supportive readers. Every word from you lifts my heart. I also wanted to thank the gorgeous, MyWitch, for creating one of her stunning pics just for me. I don’t know how she does it - magic I assume. But here is the link - you absolutely must check it out if you are a Severus fan. *Drooooool*
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/13409109
> 
> Btw, I think you know where I’m going with these chapter titles so feel free to contribute :)

“What’s  _he_  doing here?” Neville’s voice was a strangled whisper. Hermione peeked nervously at the dark figure who had swept quietly into the room only moments before. “I thought they said he wouldn’t be teaching this class for another month at least,” he continued, eyes wide with trepidation. “It’s only been three weeks, hasn’t it?”

Hermione didn’t reply. It was clear that everyone else was equally perplexed, whispering and throwing furtive glances at the wizard fronting the room. Maybe his health had improved more quickly than expected. Or perhaps he didn’t intend to stay.

Regardless, it was the nature of his arrival that had instantly caused Hermione’s heart to lurch into her throat. It wasn’t the usual Snape entry at all. Unhurried. Silent. He’d not uttered so much as a word. And now he stood with one hand resting casually on the desk, waiting.

Each student who arrived expressed the same silent shock at seeing him, practically tripping over themselves in the rush to take their seats. He, by contrast, looked bored, jaw coolly offset as he appeared to probe his back teeth for left-over breakfast.

It was only when they were all seated, jiggling knees and fiddling nervously with quills that he produced any purposeful movement at all, raising one pale hand to wandlessly, wordlessly close the door with a reserved ‘ _click_ ’. Everyone froze. That tiny sound was somehow more frightening than the usual banging and crashing they associated with the dark wizard’s arrivals and exits.

“Where are you up to?” He lifted his chin a little as he surveyed the room.

No one responded. It was the shock. Hermione had never heard him like that. It was the same inimitable baritone but it was smooth, gentle, no harsh consonants, no impossibly distended vowels, just a simple question, rolled out like a soft, velvet rug. It felt like a trap.

“Anyone?” He lifted an eyebrow. But it was little more than a casual stretch. Not the arch of instant death that they’d come to expect.

Hermione’s inner voice was screaming at her,  _“Not you! Don’t you remember?!”_

But the silence was so excruciating that she couldn’t stop herself.

“Professor, we have finished the phase change tinctures and moved on to the aromatics.”

He nodded. “Thank you Miss Granger. In your opinion, how successful was the transition?”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed.  _Since when had he requested her opinion on anything?_

“The . . . uh . . . the phase changes?” she asked, her hand creeping toward her book in case he asked her anything more complicated.

“Yes. Most particularly the plasma states.” He was looking at her with interest.

“It was . . . um . . .” her gaze swept around the faces of the other students, staring at her, willing her not to make him mad. “It was . . . variable, I believe. The distillation was within a drop, or even a fraction in some cases.”

He cast his eyes to the floor then, pausing as though in deep thought.

Hermione glanced at Neville. He responded with a tiny shrug.

“I believe it would be prudent to review.” Snape continued to consider the floor. “The distillation requires an unparalleled degree of precision to master. The skills are invaluable.” His black eyes swept upward to gather them in once again. “Please turn to the recipe on page one hundred and eight . . . for Buccovenene.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. The word ‘Please?’ was a surprise. But more shocking was his choice of potion— _Buccovenene_ —a sublingual detoxifier and anti-coagulant. Possibly the only preparation that could have saved him from Nagini’s bite . . . with the exception of a prophylactic anti-toxin.

_It was a little close to home wasn’t it?_

The whisper of turning pages ruffled around the room. Then everyone looked up, waiting for further direction. But there was nothing more. Snape was already seated, a book in his lap, his gaze fixed downward.

And so the lesson started—students exchanging hesitant glances before deciding to simply follow the recipe as they saw fit. Ingredients were collected, cauldrons lit, and preparation started in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Hermione found it quite remarkable how this unprecedented level of autonomy seemed to affect them, a sense of mature caution infusing their actions. She wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate ploy on Snape’s part but she found it quite exhilarating to have none of the precautions outlined, no checks, just their innate knowledge and some extremely volatile ingredients.

In fact, she was so focused upon getting it right, trailing one juice-stained finger across her text book to re-check her preparation, that she missed the fact that he’d entered their realm until his dark presence materialised beside her.

Her response was instant. Embarrassingly so. When she jerked around to face him, her eyes were immediately, automatically, drawn to his crotch. She should have looked away then, tried to focus anywhere but there. But she didn’t. She was helplessly consumed by the sight of his undisturbed placket, the tidy tailoring, wondering how he managed to conceal everything so convincingly.

She was down there far too long as it turned out. He noticed. The subtle tilt of his head when she clumsily dragged her eyes up to his, told her so. But the cool set of his features and his disconcertingly impassive expression betrayed nothing more.  _What was he thinking?_   _Was he angry?_

He reached out. She caught her breath. Extending his arm across her front, he dipped his long fingers into the mortar on her desk, extracting a small amount of residue and rubbing it between his fingertips.

“Shale salt?” That same smooth tone. But without the usual accusation or derision.

Hermione tried to gather her thoughts but knew she must look as flustered as she felt. “Yes . . . I . . . I noted that the reptilian scales weren’t brittle enough to grind properly. I thought I could add this as a desiccating agent. As far as I can tell, the chemical elements are neutral enough not to interfere with the overall composition.”

His eyes bored into her. She felt that familiar sinking feeling and her fingers suddenly itched for her wand. She wanted to disappear the mortar contents . . . before he could tear it, and her, apart.

With an air of distraction, he turned his head away.

“Clever.” It was quiet enough to be meant for him alone. But Hermione heard it, her abdomen clenching, filling with heat . . . a mixture of shock and . . . pride. It wasn’t a natural combination and it made her feel slightly ill at ease. But then the warmth continued to trickle downward . . . stirring something . . . something even more undefinable. Or at least something that she needed to leave alone . . . for now.

He faced her again.

“Have you seen fit to alter anything . . . further?”

Those impossibly black eyes. Her face mirrored in them.

Hermione blinked, guilt sluicing through her before it rose to burn hotly in her cheeks. But she was bound to answer honestly. It was in her nature after all.

“Only some . . .” She swallowed. “Only a few drops of . . . peppermint oil.”

He leaned in a little closer, surveying the contents of her cauldron.

“For what purpose?”

It struck her then that this approach, this gentle cajoling, happened to be far more effective than the sharp edges and needling prickles of his usual inferences. His silken tone wove around her like a spell.

“I considered the potion unpalatable,” Hermione muttered weakly.

“You added . . . flavouring?” His word choice was telling enough. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he was unimpressed.

“It’s intended to be taken sublingually,” Hermione rasped, her throat suddenly as dry as the dusty pages before her. “The longer held in the mouth, the better,” she went on, compelled to explain herself, even as she felt the hole in her reasoning growing to the point that it was likely to consume not only her but the rest of the class.

He placed both hands on her desk, leaning even closer as his voice, suddenly more soft and sibilant than she’d ever known it, set to work weaving what felt like a tangle of gossamer threads over her upturned face. “Miss Granger, a man will hold this potion of yours, regardless of its palatability, for as long as he can.” Hermione felt herself drawn to his mouth, intrigued by the way it stroked and caressed each word. “Even as he feels his life force draining away, as his vision fades, and those within it.” Her eyes returned to his and his eyelids shuttered, framing his dark irises, intensifying the penetration of his gaze. “If it is his only chance at survival, he will hold it. After all, you have provided the stopper to his . . . inevitable . . . death.”

The last word had his tongue slipping slowly, sensuously, between his teeth before disappearing altogether.

Hermione’s lips parted. She needed air. But there was also an apology tugging at them. Old now. One dredged up from the past . . . for leaving him. For what happened in the Shrieking Shack. “I’m—”

“Not a wise move.” Snape’s hand shot out sideways and suddenly Theodore Nott was pinned against the far wall, his thin limbs twisting helplessly. “What are you burning, Mr Nott?” Snape continued to lean on Hermione’s desk, his eyes sliding over to confront the boy.

“It’s . . . it’s . . . only ethanol,” Nott grunted, stretching his toes downward in a fruitless attempt to touch the ground which was at least two feet away.

Snape’s fingers curled slightly and Nott grimaced. “Describe the colour of the flame that you see,” Snape instructed, his voice calm despite the intensity of the bind he’d cast.

“Blue,” Nott blurted desperately. “It’s blue.”

“And what is the usual hue of burning ethanol?”

Nott’s mouth opened, his lips twitching wordlessly as his eyes darted about in a vain attempt to conjure an answer.

“Tell him, Miss Granger.” Snape’s eyes returned to her.

Hermione paused, not wishing to appear an insufferable know-it-all. She had learned her lesson, after all.

“Please,” he encouraged softly.

For some reason his gentle tone caused her eyes to slide down to his crotch, before she realised and forced them back up to his face. What she saw there, in the shadowy recesses of his gaze, caused her breathing to turn shallow, her heart jerking and fluttering about like a trapped bird.

“Yellow,” she gasped. “Ethanol burns with a yellow accent.”

“Therefore, this particular solvent is likely to be . . . ?”

She slicked her tongue self-consciously across her bottom lip, aware that he was focusing intently upon her mouth. “Methanol,” she replied, her tongue lingering in sight before she finally retracted it.

“Indeed.” His eyes remained on her and she found that she could no longer breathe. His scrutiny seemed to lodge in her throat like a . . . like his . . . like that part of him . . . that silken but sizeable portion she’d handled only the night before. She began to feel dizzy. Tiny sparks flickered at the periphery of her vision. She arched back from him, determined not to faint into her cauldron. Then she thought she saw something, the briefest hitch of his mouth, the tiniest curl.

_Was that a smile?_

Abruptly, he stood, removing his hand from her desk and jerking the other away so that Nott fell to the floor in a heap. “Methanol, Mr Nott,” he restated loudly, turning his back to the class. “A chemical known to cause irreversible injury to the nervous system, blindness or even . . .” He turned to face them in a dramatic swirl of robes, “. . . death. Would you consider this appropriate for an ingested potion?”

Nott staggered to his feet. “No, sir . . . No . . . Professor,” he stammered.

“No,” Snape repeated, lifting his chin slightly. “Is . . . correct.”

Sweeping his gaze around the room, he left them with that clear warning before calmly picking up his book and returning to his seat.

There was an audible sigh as the students collectively exhaled. Hermione was relieved that she wasn’t the only one who seemed to have issues breathing in his presence. Although perhaps she was the only one who had imagined it being caused by him thrusting his considerable—

“What the fuck was that all about?” Neville hissed in her ear.  

She swallowed, staring at Snape. “I was wrong.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Neville muttered. Hermione ignored the quip. “Go on, then. Wrong about what?” he pressed her.

“About Snape,” she murmured. “You were right. He has changed. But he’s still . . .” She paused as she watched the dark wizard casually lick his index finger before turning a page. “. . . He’s still dangerous.”

“Told you so!” Neville’s explosive whisper left spittle on her cheek.

She wiped it away without fanfare. “But you’re not right about everything.” She dealt him a sideways glance before returning to the bowed head of Snape. “I think he does give a fuck. He’s just found a better way of getting what he wants.”

Neville huffed, muttering as he turned away, “That's just grand . . . More fucking nightmares.”

 

 


	3. For Snape's Sake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And a little more fun. DSxx
> 
> Thank you to the lovely babsmd for the chapter title.
> 
> And I must also direct you to another of MyWitch’s wonderful pics.
> 
> ‘Watcher in the Woods’ inspired by ‘In Their Hands’ – more delicious naughtiness from the queen of smutty artworks.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/13740288

“Okay . . . yes . . . okay,” Hermione murmured, her lips moving against her damp palms as she attempted to compose herself.

“Hermione?”

She surfaced with a breathy gush, skimming her hair back from her face as she blinked at Neville’s reclining form. “Yes?”

He gestured to the cupboard with his wand. “We don’t have to do this tonight . . . Not if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s just . . .” She shook her head. “It’s fine. I’m just a bit tired after . . . today.”

Shrugging, Neville pushed himself out of his chair, taking a few strides away from her. “Well . . . no point waiting any longer then.”

Hermione’s hand rose to her neck as she eyed the cupboard, her fingertips grazing back and forth as she thought about what had happened that morning. Snape had taken her potion at the end of the class. Only hers. He had leaned in close, his fingertips brushing against the back of her hand as he’d slipped under her, taking the weight of the glass vial. She’d felt it then. A frisson. A spark. The shivery whisper of skin on skin. Just like this. Her chin strained upward as her own fingers slid down, playing briefly across the hollow at her throat before trickling down to nestle in the warm valley of her cleavage.

“So . . . you ready?” Neville swung around.

Hermione snatched her hand away. “It’s you who needs to be ready,” she responded tersely, crossing her arms over her chest. Blinking away the odd wistfulness, she tried to ignore the hard nubs of her nipples grinding insistently through her clothes. “Have you actually planned what you’re going to do this time?”

Neville threw a nervous grin over his shoulder. “’Course I have.”

“It better be an improvement on last time,” she muttered under her breath, annoyed at her own irritation but unable to temper it. She was confused. And aroused. She really should have said no to Neville’s request—turned in for an early night. In fact, at this moment she really needed to be alone. In bed. Making herself come.

“Let him out, then.” Neville nodded at the cupboard.

Hermione swallowed down her aching frustration and raised her wand.

“Alohamora.”

He emerged from the cupboard instantly this time. Without hesitation. But it wasn’t the brisk, commanding approach of the previous Snape. It was the Snape from that morning, relaxed, insouciant, arms swinging in slow, deliberate arcs as he sauntered towards them. She was struck again by his unique poise, by the distinctly feline grace with which he moved. As he approached, he seemed to take on an even more provocative prowl. But it was far from amusing. Leading with his crotch, the lazy roll of his hips somehow managed to make him even more intimidating.

“Oh, Gods,” she whispered.                                 

“Okay . . . c’mon . . .” She heard Neville’s determined growl despite the fact that he was hastily shuffling backwards.

“Neville, don’t wait too long,” she cautioned as the dark wizard closed in. “Neville?” He didn’t seem to be listening. “Neville, do something . . . now!”

Planting his feet, Neville suddenly snapped his wand arm forward. “Riddikulus!”

Snape stopped mid-stride.

Hermione placed a steadying hand on the table behind her as she cocked her head to one side. “What did you . . . ?”

“Shit.” Neville’s wand hand dropped limply against his thigh.

She leaned forward for a better look. “What’s that supposed to be?”

Snape was looking around with an air of mild perplexity.  _Had he felt the change?_

“Hooch,” Neville grunted.

It took a moment for Hermione to realise that it wasn’t just some aberrant noise.

“Hooch?” she repeated.

“It’s . . .” Neville raised both hands before allowing them to drop in dejection. “I thought putting Hooch’s hair on Snape would be funny,” he said weakly. “But maybe I should have chosen Ron’s . . . or Ginny’s. It’s not funny is it?” He turned to Hermione.

“Well I don’t see you laughing,” Hermione retorted, her annoyance returning.

“I know. It’s just that . . . it sort of . . . suits him.”

Hermione crossed her arms again. “Is that really the best you can do?”

Neville shrugged. “I thought it’d be funnier.”

Tapping her fingers against her bicep, Hermione stared at the silver-haired Snape. It was true. It did suit him. With a decisive huff, she began rolling up her sleeves. “Get his clothes off.”

Neville looked around in alarm. “What?”

“You heard,” she snapped. “Despite what you may think, I actually have better things to do than to doss around all night with you and your Boggart.”

Neville’s face pinched in consternation as he considered Snape.

“But it’s not going to be funny this time, is it? It’s not a surprise.”

“It doesn’t have to be a surprise to be funny,” Hermione countered, heading for the far side of the room. 

“But it’s like already knowing the punch-line before hearing a joke,” Neville complained. “It’s not funny anymore. You need to be taken by surprise.”

“If I gave you a surprise hex to the bollocks, would that be funny?” Hermione asked fiercely as she continued to make her way around behind Snape.

“Fuck’s sake,” Neville muttered under his breath before raising his wand. He paused a moment, shaking his head in resignation before drawing his brows into a deep furrow. Taking a few steadying breaths, he stabbed the wand at Snape’s chest. “Riddikulus!”

“Unnhhh.” A soft sigh instantly slipped between Hermione's lips at the sight of naked Snape. And she could only see the back of him. The lean taper . . . firm buttocks . . . strong, shapely thighs and calves.

She swallowed. It was inexplicable but her fingers were actually tingling with the need to touch him again. In fact, making Neville laugh suddenly seemed like a secondary consideration . . . a very . . . distant . . . second.

She moved up behind him. Close. Feeling the warmth radiating from his torso before she even ventured a hand there. A small shiver flitted between her shoulder blades. It was wrong on so many levels to be caressing him, the Snape-Boggart, slithering her hands over swathes of smooth, ivory skin, gliding down to cup his buttocks, squeezing them, jiggling them.

“You right?”

Hermione bowed her head, trying to ignore Neville.

Stepping in even closer so that her entire body was pressing gently against his, his fuzzy warmth grazing her cheek, she reached around his hip again for his cock, relieved to find that it hadn’t diminished whatsoever since her previous fondling.

Gripping his shaft firmly, she marvelled at the solid weight of it, the potent magical energy pulsing against her palm. The cocks she’d handled in the past had had a limp squishiness that she’d always found rather comedic. But this was entirely different. This wasn’t the cock of some teenager. Or some green initiate. He was a powerful wizard in his prime. Commanding. Virile. And he happened to have a consummately compelling cock to match.

She began moving her hand slowly over him, dragging her damp fingers back and forth, squeezing gently.

“Oi, what are you doing?” Neville protested.

“Just . . . wait . . .” She spoke into Snape’s back, her lips brushing the dip of his spine.

“For what?”

It was a good question. She didn’t really have an answer. But it turned out she didn’t need one . . . not immediately.

“Now, what the fuck is  _he_  doing?” Neville squawked.

Long slender fingers suddenly curled around her own, his large hand cradling hers, helping her, encouraging her.

Hermione’s mouth opened, she felt her hot breath gushing through the narrow gap between them. And then she groaned.

“Hermione! You’ve got to get away from him. Now!” Neville’s voice had risen to a strangled squeak.

“No . . . it’s . . . it’s fine . . . he’s just . . .” She could hear her own detached, dreamy tone. As though she had been drugged. She closed her eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, Hermione? You’re supposed to be trying to make me laugh, remember?”

The hand around hers tightened as it pumped her small fist back and forth. She steadied her free hand on his hip but he instantly grabbed it and pulled it around to his front, resting it on the broad plane of his chest, over one nipple.

She fondled the tiny nub gently.

“Hermione, this really isn’t funny,” Neville warned.

“Are you sure?” She was definitely slurring now. “It’s a sort of visual humour, isn’t it?”

Neville snorted dismissively.

“I thought you’d like this sort of thing . . . slapstick,” she murmured, smiling against Snape’s back as the fleshy, rhythmic sound of her 'slapping his stick' continued.

Neville snorted again. It sounded more like amusement. But he still wasn’t laughing.

“I can’t, Hermione,” he said finally. “You should see his face. He’s really getting off on this.”

Her smile dropped away. She wanted to see him—to watch him as her tugging sped up, as she massaged the bold ridge of his helmet, as she was forced by the hot pocket of his palm to hump his glans. She wanted to see what she did to him . . . how the tiny tweaks and pinches of his nipple tugged at his features. At his mouth. That mouth.

He suddenly gasped. She felt the surge of air right through to his back. Then he squeezed her hand tightly against his chest, pressed it into his flesh like a branding iron as he finished with a flurry of strokes of her other fist. The deep groan that resonated against her ear sent a gush of warmth flooding through her before his buttocks began jerking wildly against her belly.  

“Oh fuck, that landed on my shoe!” Neville groaned. “Fucking hell.”

Hermione could feel Snape’s cock shuddering in her hand as warm seed spattered across her knuckles, seeping between her fingers. She sighed with him.

“Well that couldn’t have been less funny,” Neville grumbled, his voice receding. He was moving away.

He couldn’t.

“Stop!” Hermione gasped. She didn’t want the Boggart to turn around. Not now.

Clearing her throat, she squeezed his wilting cock.

“Now, Mr Longbottom,” she announced in her deepest, Snape-iest voice, “that’s how you extract Bubotuber pus . . .  _properly_.”

Neville chuckled a little through his nose.

“And this,” Hermione pushed the skin of Snape's cock forward, slipping it over the end, “is an impersonation of my late cousin . . . Nearly Headless Dick.”

“Fucking hell,” Neville spluttered before finally giving way to a full-fledged laugh. When it was surging up from his depths and Hermione felt Snape’s demeanour change—his dismissal—she let him go, ducking quickly away.

Pressing herself against the wall, she watched as the Snape-Boggart ambled back to the cupboard, head down, before disappearing inside.

Neville was still snickering. “I never realised that you were actually properly funny.” He nodded approvingly.

“Only in emergencies,” she muttered drily before pushing herself off the wall and heading for the door.

“Hermione?”

She turned back with a weary sigh.

“You’ve got his . . . you know . . .” Neville did a small tugging gesture. “His stuff . . . on your hand.”

Hermione looked down, tilting her wrist to catch the tell-tale sheen in the torchlight. “So I have.”

He inclined his head towards her. “Aren’t you going to . . . ?”

She peered at him. “What?”

Noting the intensity of her gaze, Neville shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Good.” She turned. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Neville watched as she spun away from him, pulling her wand and flicking it at the door.

He frowned in puzzlement as she strode hastily from the room.

_What the fuck was that all about?_

 

 


	4. Snape me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/C: Hey, I know I’m slow these days but here’s a longer chapter to make up for it. Hope you are still with me. DSxx  
> P.S. Thanks to the gorgeous SouthernBelle50++ for the chapter title.

Hermione lay where she had fallen—across the short span of her bed, head propped against the wall, gazing at the pearlescent puddles that had pooled in the valleys of her knuckles. Waggling her fingers gently, she watched as the creamy fluid caught the light over and over again, glimmering faintly. _Could it be poisonous? Or magical?_ _Was it different from human semen_ _—even if the Boggart had assumed a human form?_

She brought her hand to her nose and inhaled deeply. It certainly smelled like semen. She started to extend her tongue and realised what a stupid idea it was.

Sighing, she finally withdrew her wand and Scourgified the remaining ejaculate away.

Boggarts weren’t sentient beings. They weren’t even mortal.

_So what was going on with this one?_

Hermione allowed her wand to roll back in her fingertips until the smooth wood was resting lightly against her lips.

Either wanking off Snape had been one of Neville’s worst fears—which was always possible. Or this Boggart was operating with an unusually high level of autonomy. The way he had grabbed her hands in his own, encouraging her to handle his cock in the way he wanted, forcing her to—although it wasn’t as though she wouldn’t have done it on her own—there was something quite unsettlingly deliberate and self-serving about its actions.

Boggarts weren’t known for their independence. In fact, their entire existence was dependent upon that of others, upon their emotions. Boggarts used fear to generate form _. But could there be more to it than that?_ Certainly laughter was powerful enough to dismiss them. _But were they capable of responding to something more subtle? Attraction? Need? Could this Boggart, in fact, be feeding off her desires, even though he hadn’t initially manifested as her own?_

Hermione screwed her eyes closed and shifted her wand up to rest against her furrowed brow. She was tired. Her brain hurt. But her skin also happened to be buzzing. She could still feel the residual sensation of his strong fingers guiding her back and forth along the solid length of his shaft, his other hand pressing her palm against his chest. All of his naked warmth writhing and flexing against her.

She clenched her jaw at the memory.

But it finally overcame her.

“Shit.” The word hissed between her teeth as she tossed her wand aside. 

Without even bothering to undress, she delved a hand under her skirt and quickly slid her fingers down the front of her knickers. Everything was wet—as it had been since that morning . . . since the classroom . . . and Snape.

Quite clearly her sustained period of sexual inactivity since the war had finally caught up with her. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that, without the threat of imminent death, Ron wasn’t nearly as desirable as she’d thought he was. They’d parted as friends. Nothing more.

But now her libido had returned, hot and vengeful after what it had clearly deemed an unreasonable period of neglect. The object that it had decided to latch onto was somewhat surprising, but perhaps was the very reason she had fallen. In recent months, she had found herself desperate for something new, something surprising, challenging or intriguing. In the post-war slump she had craved anything to break the monotony. The Boggart had certainly done that for her . . . but Snape had somehow, after only one lesson, done it to her even more.

And when her fingers began to gently massage her clitoris, her thoughts immediately went, not to the Boggart’s incredibly alluring cock, but to Snape, his face hovering so tantalisingly close to hers, his tongue and lips slipping past one another as his mouth rolled around each delicious syllable. Her own mouth strained upward, lips parting, as though she could somehow capture each word as it dripped from his tongue but, in her fertile imagination, he simply smiled enigmatically in response, as he had that morning, and began to descend.   

She whimpered—a tremulous burst, loud against the silence. Eyes closed, her free hand slithered down over her breasts, tracing the journey of his body against hers until he was there, settled between her parted thighs. Moments later she felt him touch down, taking over where her fingers had left off. It was now his tongue, his sensuous lips, licking, sucking, twining around her clitoris with breathtaking assurance.

In response, her hand drifted down to rest against where she imagined the back of his head to be. Her fingers curled, grasping his hair, encouraging him, as the Snape-Boggart had encouraged her, pressing him firmly into her pussy as she spread her knees wider.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s good . . . Professor. So . . . good. Uhhh . . .” Her neck arched back against the hard wall but she wasn’t about to change a thing. She had him right where she wanted him. “Ohhh Gods, yes . . . down there. Put that . . . inside me.” The last part was a rising moan as she began rocking her hips against the bed, imagining his tongue thrusting into her, filling her.

It was probably a little ambitious to visualise his tongue fucking her as comprehensively as it currently was, her muscles clinging on to its delicious contours as though it were something far more substantial, but she wasn’t about to question what was proving to be one of the most erotic encounters she’d ever had, real or otherwise.

The fingers against his head curled into a fist as she drove him into her with even more force. The flurry of activity around her clitoris hadn’t let up and her tunnel was beginning to constrict, drawing his laving muscle even further inside her.

“Fuck,” she breathed as the tension mounted.

“Miss Granger.” His voice in her head was so real that she almost stopped. She bit her own tongue to temper her response.

“Miss Granger . . .” She rocked her head from side to side, trying to block him out, to sustain her vision, but the deep resonance was like a drum reverberating in both her ears and her chest. “It is your time to come . . .”

She groaned, the words finally spilling out, “Yes . . . Yes Professor . . . I know.”

Immediately the forceful feel of plunging into her pussy intensified.

“It’s your time to come . . . for me.”

Something broke inside her. She cried out. “I am, Professor . . . I’m coming.”

Chin curling into her chest, she stroked herself until her pelvis suddenly seized upward. Grunting as her backside jerked and stuttered uncontrollably against the bed, she rode her hand through the powerful contractions, her nether regions convulsing with a force that had her biting her lip hard in an effort not to wail. She held on, breathless, eyes screwed closed as her thighs continued to shudder. Then, with a final moan of relief, she felt a warm pulse of liquid surge from her spent pussy, trickling down between her buttocks to saturate her underwear even further.

It was as she jerked faintly with the aftershocks, breaths rasping hot and dry, ceiling moving in blurry waves above her, that she finally wondered at her own words.

_Why had she responded to his voice in her head with the declaration that, ‘she knew’?_

_Could she really know more? More than she was even aware?_

***

“Do you reckon he knows?” Neville hissed in her ear.

Hermione didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to the teacher’s table. Snape’s eyes flickered away.

“He keeps looking over here. Do you think he suspects something? About the Boggart?” Neville spoke out of the side of his mouth which, to Hermione, looked even more suspicious than if he’d just spoken normally. Hermione shook her head at the suggestion. _How could he know?_ The classroom had been locked and warded on both occasions. She’d made sure of it. “Well he certainly seems interested in something over this way,” Neville persisted.

“Or maybe you’re simply being paranoid again,” Hermione said dismissively, reaching for her pumpkin juice. “Which is probably not the wisest thing to do considering we have a double class with him this afternoon.”

Neville snorted and shovelled scrambled egg into his mouth, his eyes still fixed on Snape. “I just can’t seem to get that image out of my head,” he muttered thickly, nodding in Snape’s direction. “You didn’t have to see it from your side, the exact moment he—”

“I felt it,” Hermione interrupted, returning her glass to the table with a loud clang before grabbing her bag and rising from her seat.

“Yes, but it didn’t give you nightmares,” Neville responded, craning his neck to look up at her. “Or did it?”

Hermione clenched her jaw, determined to give nothing away about the vivid dreams she’d had. “Neville, just think, there are no more surprises. You’ve seen him stripped bare in every sense. It can’t get any more shocking . . . right?”

Neville searched her face, a dubious frown creasing his own, before he finally relented and returned to shovelling his eggs. “I s’pose so.”

“Good,” Hermione replied crisply. “I’ll see you in class.”

Neville lifted his head to respond but stopped when he saw that Hermione wasn’t addressing him at all. She was now looking directly at Snape. And he was looking just as intently at her.

***

Despite her dismissal of Neville’s Snape fixation, Hermione found, as the morning progressed, that she wasn’t doing significantly better. She’d had considerable trouble concentrating in her Runes and Divination classes, as the thought of sitting through a double lesson in his presence made her feel hot, and like there was something slippery slithering about inside her pelvis, trying to tunnel out. She was forced to skip lunch, spending it in the library completing an assignment that she’d fallen behind on due to Boggarting and masturbating the night before. So when the time for Potions finally came, she was already feeling a little giddy.

Descending the steps to the dungeons, her heart thudded restlessly with a mixture of trepidation and an oddly thrilling sense of the unknown— _did this new Snape have more to reveal_?

She opened the door to the classroom. And stopped.

She wasn’t the first one there. In fact, it seemed that most of the class had chosen to arrive early. And all of them seemed to be intently focussed upon the dark wizard before them.  

Unlike the day before, Snape was seated. Writing. But while his right hand was busily scribing long, fluid strokes with a black quill, his other hand sat relaxed, open, with something resting upon his index finger. It was blue. And it was a butterfly.

Hermione frowned. The image didn’t gel at all. And yet . . .

Snape glanced up.

“Would you care to take a seat, Miss Granger?” He nodded toward her usual desk.

She paused a moment, disconcerted anew by his smooth politeness. His words, again, completely unbarbed. And yet . . .

“Yes, Professor,” she muttered hastily as she crossed the room, head down, to take her place.

He continued writing for a minute or two further before placing the quill gently in its holder and standing. The butterfly lifted, fluttering for a moment, before coming to rest on his forearm, like a pretty blue charm against his black sleeve.

“Today you will be brewing a potion that utilises a range of botanicals.” He gestured to his left and, with a brief flick of his fingers, ignited several torches in the far corner of the room, revealing a cluster of large hanging baskets full of plants. “The preparation techniques for these are quite specific and will require considerable effort on your part to master.” Suddenly two objects alighted from the baskets and flew across the room, more butterflies; a large orange one landing on Snape’s shoulder and the other, white, near the pocket of his frock coat. If he noticed, it was impossible to tell. “This particular potion, Carnem Manducans, you will find on page fifty seven of your potion books. Apprise yourself of the requirements and make a start.”

“Pardonne moi, Professeur?”

All eyes swivelled to the raised hand of a new Ravenclaw student, Adalene Clement, who had transferred from Beauxbatons at the beginning of the year. “If it pleases you, sir. May you tell me,” she gushed enthusiastically. “Do zese butterflies feed upon ze plants?”

Snape turned to her. “No.”

“No?” She opened her blue eyes wide and gave an exaggerated shrug.

“These plants feed upon the butterflies.”

The smile on her pretty face faltered. “Oh, I see.”

His lip curled almost imperceptibly before he turned with a flourish, setting the butterflies in motion as he stepped up to the blackboard.

Hermione watched as the girl gazed at his back, looking slightly crestfallen. Clearly her image of a sweet Butterfly-Snape had been shattered. She didn’t know him very well.

Hermione smirked with a sense of satisfaction before flicking her book open to the correct page. ‘Carnem Manducans—the flesh eating potion’. She frowned—another unusual choice. Although, as she read, she realised that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. The digestive part was only plant-based, so it would have a gradual effect, perhaps for milder conditions, such as treating calluses . . . or perhaps scars.

She spent some time acquainting herself with the recipe, before looking up to the board to see that Snape had drawn what was actually a rather beautiful three dimensional image of a pitcher plant. An arrow on the drawing indicated that the digestive glands were located deep within the throat of the plant. She had originally assumed that she could simply slice it up and remove the glands that way, but the image suggested otherwise. In fact, it seemed they weren’t supposed to remove the glands at all but rather stimulate them to release their digestive secretions.

Making her way over to the hanging baskets in the corner, she used her scalpel to cleanly remove a large pitcher before returning to her desk. She peered into its depths. _What was she supposed to use? A spatula? A stirring rod?_

Searching through her equipment, she decided that her glass stirring rod was probably best and proceeded to insert it inside the plant, rubbing blindly along the inside walls, hoping that she was hitting the right spot.

“Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice rang out, managing to fill the room without him having to even raise it. “Please explain your reason for relentlessly poking your pitcher in that manner.”

Hermione’s head jerked up, embarrassment immediately shooting flames into her cheeks. “I . . . I wasn’t sure what else to use.”

“How long did you spend thinking about the problem?” he asked, getting to his feet.

Hermione glanced around at her classmates and noticed Adelene crossing her arms and smirking in a manner not dissimilar to the way she had earlier.

“I . . . um . . . I would gather . . . not long enough?” she responded weakly.

“Not . . . long . . . enough,” Snape repeated, his boots reinforcing each word with a jarring echo against the stone flags as he approached.   

Then he was before her. Within touching distance. Black eyes consuming her.

“Miss Granger, tell me the name of this plant.” It was a command, not a question. He clearly expected her to know.

And thankfully she did. “It’s the Nepenthes Pitcher Plant,” she replied without hesitation.

“More commonly known as . . . ?” His tone now softened a shade, coaxing her with a hint of velvet as he tilted his head in that way that made her feel that he was drawing her into something precarious.

This time she did hesitate. “It’s the . . .” She swallowed. “It’s known as the Sweet Water Seductress.”

“Indeed.” His head eased back, nostrils flaring faintly as though physically absorbing her response. “And with what does she . . . seduce?”

Hermione had to tear her eyes away then, quite unable to cope with the aftermath of that word on his lips.

“She . . . uh . . . it . . . it entices its prey with its . . . its honeyed secretions,” she muttered, her eyes blindly fixed upon the open pages of her book.

“Honeyed secretions.” Just the sound of his own rich, honeyed secretions caressing each word set something simmering deep inside her. “Enough to lure, and drown, an unwitting prey.” She had to squeeze her thighs together as he continued. “A live . . . organic prey.”

She looked up then, his emphasis on ‘live’ and ‘organic’ the clear give-aways.

“It needs to be something . . . something alive . . . to encourage the plant to secrete,” she stated, with a sense of relief.

His head inclined in acknowledgement.

She scrutinised the pitcher then, wishing that she hadn’t chosen such a long one. “I’m . . . I’m not sure that I can reach.”

He leaned forward, peering at the fleshy tunnel gripped in her fist.

“I thought that you enjoyed a challenge,” he murmured softly, eyes still fixed downward. It felt so ridiculously intimate, almost conspiratorial, despite their surroundings.

“I . . . I do Professor but . . .”

His eyes lifted to hers, searching, delving, prodding every element of her features before he finally spoke. “Are you intimating that you would wish me to . . . assist?” He lifted one dark eyebrow and she found that she was suddenly struck dumb. There was a warning there. A hint that she may be biting off more than she could chew. And he did have a significant amount to bite—she was only too aware of that after the previous evening.

But in the end, she gave herself no time for deliberation. She nodded immediately, her stupidly eager body making the decision before her mind could catch up.

He straightened, eyes shuttering slightly in a way that she was beginning to find both enigmatic and alluring before proceeding to lift his hands to his throat. She caught her breath. _What was he going to do?_

With a deft ripple of fingers, he began rapidly undoing the buttons of his frock coat.

_Fucking hell!_

_This isn’t happening! This isn’t happening!_ Hermione’s mind took up the chant as it struggled to reconcile what her eyes were telling her. But it _was_ happening. Even though she had never seen it happen before.

Snape did _not_ remove his coat. For _anyone_.

Briskly tugging at the sleeves, one at a time, he shrugged the iconic garment off before turning and dismissing it casually to his desk. Then he flicked the buttons of his white shirt sleeves, an upward lift of his finger causing each to roll up exposing the lean musculature of his forearms. Hermione’s head wasn’t swimming, she was drowning in what had become a confusing flood of images and sensations. The Boggart and Snape were merging into one, and it was all she could do to stop herself from reaching out to touch his luminous skin, to see if he was as soft and warm as she remembered.

“It will require a firm hand,” he informed her as he leaned over her desk.

“Mine or . . . or yours?” Hermione practically whimpered.

His eyes locked with hers. “Both.”

_Oh, fuck!_

This definitely wasn’t the Snape of old. He was infinitely more hands-on that she had ever remembered him to be. Or ‘hands-in’ as it turned out, as he suddenly reached for her, dragging her current fist down to the base of the pitcher and placing her other hand around the top part so that she was spanning the plant’s entire length, before he delved two long fingers inside. 

Her mouth had been parchment dry. But now it started to water. And it wasn’t the only part of her that was succumbing to an acute attack of over-lubrication. She was forced to clench every orifice in the hope that she wouldn’t start dribbling as his digits slithered down between her damp fists, the fine membrane of the plant the only barrier between them.

“Now grip me firmly on the downstroke,” he instructed, thrusting deeply.  

 _Gods!_ Hermione’s shoulders sagged but she inhaled deeply in an attempt to keep herself from collapsing into a pile of boneless mush. Squeezing rhythmically with her bottom fist, she seized his fingers each time they plunged in, over and over again, until the muscles of her pussy began mimicking the action. And when he curled against her palm, easing out the words, ‘That’s good’, it was all she could do to stop herself from moaning out loud.

Biting her bottom lip hard, Hermione dropped her gaze to focus upon the items on her desk. She couldn’t look at his face and she certainly couldn’t look at his hands. Feeling his firm digits plunging inside her own was difficult enough. And then there was the sound, the rhythmic squelch that was growing louder as the lubricious result of his efforts was being realised. Clearly the technique was working.

Unfortunately it was working too well. Hermione could feel herself building to a dangerous level of arousal. She knew that, at this point it would take very little to push her completely over the edge and so she stood, practically paralysed, afraid of moving anything at all.

Finally, thankfully, he stopped. And withdrew.

“I believe that should be sufficient.”

With a deep sense of trepidation, Hermione ventured her gaze back up to his to see a spark glinting in his black eyes, slick fingers extended towards her.

“Why don’t you collect this?” he suggested, with a casualness that made the current riot inside her body feel like complete mania. “Then you can squeeze the remainder from the pitcher.”

She nodded shakily. Aware that her voice would be a few octaves higher than it should be—if she managed to find any words at all.

In the absence of any obvious method of collection, she grasped him by the wrist, just above his Dark Mark, finding it to be as warm and smooth as the skin she’d pressed herself against the previous evening. Directing his fingers down to her mortar, she slicked her hands along his own, her small fist grasping each long digit in turn, pooling the thick secretions as she progressed until it glistened in the webbing between her fingers, sticky and warm. Too familiar.

Her pussy was so close.

A breathy sigh shuddered from her.

Then he gently slipped from her grasp.

“I believe that you should now have sufficient knowledge to perform your own extractions,” Snape announced, turning to face the class.

Hermione’s sudden return to reality felt physical, like an actual jolt. At some point in the proceedings, the others must have melted away. In fact, by the end, it had felt as though the world had shrunk down to include just the two of them. But looking up to see the shock on so many wide-eyed faces, she realised that the other students must have been with them the entire way. Adam’s apples were bobbing furiously, one girl surreptitiously fanned herself as she bent down to collect something from her bag, even Adalene was staring, glossy pink lips hanging apart, dumbfounded.

Hermione didn’t have a smirk left in her. She didn’t have anything.

“You appeared to be watching particularly closely, Mr Longbottom,” Snape commented as he rolled down his sleeves with quick, efficient movements. Neville looked like he wanted to run. “I expect you to be able to produce at least an equivalent amount.” Neville made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Snape looked him up and down, his lip curling faintly before he finally swept away, summoning his coat and magically reinstating it as he returned to his desk. Hermione watched from under her eyelashes as the dark wizard calmly sat, took up his quill and continued to write. She felt somehow heavy and light all at once, as though he’d lifted something from her but also left something behind. And, despite his apparent nonchalance, she knew that the entire thing had been quite deliberate. He had known exactly what he was doing. And she was now quite sure that Neville had been correct. Snape must know about the Boggart. He must. _But how?_

Hermione worked in silence for the remainder of the lesson, glancing at him occasionally as she tried to fathom what his intention might be. And, despite her focus on completing the potion successfully, she remained very much aroused throughout. He’d done it to her, deliberately. But he had warned her; he’d given her the choice. _Had he known that she would take up the offer? Was he aware of how hard she’d come the night before imagining his tongue inside her?_ She squirmed as her eyes trailed over the dark curtain of hair draped across his pale cheek. She’d imagined herself grasping him by the roots, forcing him between her spread legs, grinding him into her pussy until she—

“Can I help you, Miss Granger?”

He hadn’t even looked up.

“Oh yes, I’ve . . . I’ve finished,” Hermione stammered. “Would you like me to dispose of this?” She held up her potion bottle.

“No, leave it with me. Please.” Only then did he look up from his parchment.

Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, Hermione made her way up to his desk. She went to place the bottle on the corner but he extended his hand instead, so she slipped the smooth glass into the cup of his palm.

“Thank you.”

She nodded, avoiding eye contact. But just as she began to turn away, he spoke again, quietly. “It seems that I owe you an apology, Miss Granger.”

_An apology? Since when did Snape apologise for anything?_

“D . . . do you?” she stammered weakly. “How so?”

“You were correct.” He leaned back in his chair, settling his thighs slightly further apart. “The addition of peppermint oil did render the Buccovenene considerably more palatable.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, trying to form an ‘Oh’ but nothing came out.

_Had he simply tasted it, or had he consumed the whole thing? Why would he need it now . . . after all this time?_

He must have seen the tangle of questions playing out on her face because he provided an answer.

“Magical venom happens to be particularly intractable.”

Her gaze immediately flickered down, crotchward, before she managed to drag it back up. “Are there . . . side effects?”

“There were . . . But not so many now . . .” His own black gaze drifted down, taking in the laboured rise and fall of her chest and the knot of her fists, as his fingertips, the ones he’d thrust inside the pitcher plant rubbed slowly, thoughtfully against one another.

_What was he implying? Something? Nothing?_

Suddenly, he flicked his fingers forward and a new butterfly, azure, appeared on the curve of his knuckles before giving a few delicate test flaps and fluttering away.

“Dinner time?” she asked, with an awkward grimace at the plants in the corner.

“Hardly,” he responded with a faint smirk. “The butterflies consume the nectar of the smaller plants; they are rarely consumed themselves.”

“But you said . . . ?”

He raised an eyebrow and managed to look . . . younger . . . sort of innocent . . . and charming. It sent a shiver through her as she now knew him to be quite the opposite. He had been deviously naughty earlier on—practically finger fucking her to orgasm in front of the entire class. But could he also be the man before her, creating beautiful butterflies with a flick of his fingers?

Worried that she might be showing too much, Hermione delivered a brief, faltering smile before she suddenly turned and strode for the door.

_Gods, that Boggart was going to be in trouble tonight._


	5. I don't give a Snape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And another one to keep things rolling, DSxx
> 
> I’m dedicating this chapter and fic to MyWitch for her wonderful artworks, most recently her ‘Watcher in the Woods’ which was inspired by another fic of mine but was also the inspiration for this chapter. DSxx

“Well you’ve certainly changed your tune,” Neville grumbled as he twisted the handle, opening the door into the empty classroom. “Only this week I had to practically beg you to help and now you won’t leave it alone.”

“You were the one who said you wanted to get in as much practise as possible,” replied Hermione, slipping off her jacket and tossing it onto one of the spare desks.

She looked around, checking for hiding spots. None. Except the cupboard.

“Yeah, but I’m dead tired tonight.” Neville plonked himself down on a seat and raked his fingers through his hair. “After that fucking Potions class.”

“You won’t have to do much,” Hermione said brightly. “As I said before, just let him out and I’ll do the rest.”

She slipped her wand from her back pocket and performed a Disillusionment check, just to be sure. Nothing. No one lurking in the shadows. Returning to the door, she locked and warded it, turning back to the room with an air of expectation.

Neville was still in the chair, head back, hand resting over his eyes.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she huffed, striding over and taking him by the arm. “Up you get.”

Neville groaned. “He knows about us. About all of this.”

“Even if he does, he obviously doesn’t care to do anything about it.”

“Yes he does!” Neville responded irritably, shrugging her off. “What do you think that was today? That was all about punishing us. Humiliation.”

“And you were up to it, weren’t you?” Hermione grabbed him again, this time by both arms. “You showed him that you could do the extraction just as well as he could.”

“For fuck’s sake, Hermione.” Neville shook his head. “I’m not getting into some jizzing competition with Snape.”

“That’s not what he was trying to do,” Hermione stared at him, shocked.

“Yes he fucking was. That’s exactly what he was doing.”

Hermione realised then that that was probably true.

“Listen, I do think he suspects something. I’m not sure why or how, but you don’t need to worry. He’s not here. I checked.”

“What? You think he was here before? Watching?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione responded sharply, lifting both arms in exasperation. “I’m just saying.”

“Saying what?”

“Just . . .” She sighed, letting her arms flop back to her sides. “I’m just saying . . . can you get on with it?”

Neville scrutinised her. “I don’t know what you’re playing at but if what you’re planning tonight brings me any more grief, I’m not doing it again.”

“Fine.”

With a final shake of his head and a huffing sigh, he turned toward the cupboard. Lifting his wand, he rolled his shoulders a little as though preparing for a fight. “I’m just letting him out this time, right?”

“Right,” she confirmed, reaching up to flick the top button of her shirt open. And then the next. She was suddenly feeling very warm.

Neville stood with his arm raised, directing his wand at the cupboard for such an excruciatingly long time that Hermione was about to urge him to ‘get on with it’, before he finally performed a small twirl and flick, cracking the door open.  

The Boggart’s exit this time was different again. He didn’t pause. But neither did he barge out. He simply pushed the door open, as though he had been waiting for them, and began approaching with long, measured strides. Despite his fluid movements, Hermione noted that he wore a particularly complex expression. Like he wanted to say something. But couldn’t.

As he came closer, she slipped her wand from her back pocket, performing a complex looping pattern before jabbing it in his direction. Suddenly a dark blindfold materialised from thin air and wrapped around his eyes. He halted.

Neville jerked around to look at her. “What did you do that for?”

“I want to go to him. Without him changing.”

“You what?”

“I want to approach him. From the front.”

Neville rolled his eyes before turning away and kicking at a crack in the stone flags. “Is this going to take long?”

“Take a seat if you need to,” Hermione responded, slipping her wand back into her pocket without taking her eyes off Boggart-Snape.

Neville slouched over to a chair and plonked down again.

Licking her lips, Hermione was surprised at how anxious she felt as she approached the blindfolded Boggart. It was difficult to say if what had happened earlier in the day with Snape was still affecting her, or if her reservations about exactly what was going on with the Boggart were bubbling up again. But by the time she was standing before him, her heart was beating such a forceful tattoo against her breast bone that her entire body felt like it was shuddering with the impact.

Reaching up, she placed a hand on his chest. He was fully clothed but she could feel the warmth, even through his frock coat. Each time he breathed, her palm lifted gently, and she watched it, slowing her own breathing until they were synchronised. But far from being calmed by their mutual inspirations and expirations, she found herself swaying erratically with the effort, a tide of adrenaline surging through her veins. She had Snape. Snape beneath her fingertips. Or at least as close to Snape as she could get.

He was hers, to do with as she wished. And while she was aware of how wrong it was, on so many levels, her entire being was caught up in the moment, and she now felt herself quaking, succumbing to what was turning out to be a rare but welcome thrill.

Bringing her other hand up to join the first, she skimmed her palms gratuitously over his pectoral muscles, edging along their firm contours before coming to rest at his top coat button. She undid it. He didn’t even twitch. She released another, and another. Her lips fell open as she sucked in deeper breaths. There was so much power in breaching that formidable barrier. Her fingers were soon slippery with perspiration but she continued to undo the rest, button after button, until his coat was hanging open.

Without a pause, she delved both hands under the thick black material to skate across the starched surface of his white shirt. So proper. Even as a Boggart. But the feeling of crisp hairs, soft nipples, beneath the fabric was just so tantalising. She stopped to tease both buds at once, urging them to stiffen under her fingertips. He did twitch then. Just a brief hitch of his cheek under the blindfold. But when she suddenly grasped one hard pebble, pinching it, his top lip curled, making her want to—

“You’re not planning on just molesting him again, are you?”

Hermione jolted a little. She’d somehow forgotten that Neville was there. “I’m not molesting him . . . I’m just . . . I’m trying to understand him.”

“What’s there to understand?” Neville’s voice rose to an exasperated squawk behind her. “He’s a Boggart. And he’s my Boggart. And you’re feeling him up.”

“No, he’s not. He’s not just your Boggart. I think he’s . . . he’s different.” Hermione ran her fingers along his ribcage, feeling him shiver faintly as she slithered around to press against the warmth of his back.

“He’s not different. It’s just that he looks like Snape. And despite what you say, it’s you who’s obsessed with him, not me.”

Hermione turned then, one hand still sandwiched between Boggart-Snape’s coat and shirt.

“I am  _not_  obsessed with him,” she responded tersely. “I just happen to find him . . . interesting. And I really think there is something going on with this Boggart. I think he’s trying to tell us something . . . It’s like he wants to . . . communicate.”

Neville snorted. “Really? So why aren’t you talking to him?”

“It’s not necessarily going to be verbal,” Hermione replied, turning back to Boggart-Snape, her eyes trickling down the pale skin of his neck, taking in the fine hairs emerging from where she had begun to undo his shirt. “It might be . . .” She trailed off as her gaze continued down, taking in the large bulge in his trousers.

“Non-verbal?” Neville offered, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what was happening yesterday? A wank chat? Was that his own special brand of cum-unication?”

“Neville,” Hermione said, managing to sound surprisingly calm. “I realise that you don’t exactly approve of my methods. And for that reason, I would ask that you turn away now. Just for a few minutes. You might also wish to cast a silencing incantation. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished.

“Silencing incantation? How am I supposed to hear the amazing talking Boggart if I do that?”

Hermione paused, waiting for the derision to dissipate. Then she turned to look Neville in the eye. “I’ll let you know when I’ve finished,” she repeated, giving him a reassuring nod.

Neville paused, staring between her and the Boggart, before releasing a loud huff of resignation. “Mental,” he muttered, shaking his head as he swivelled around on his seat. “Fucking mental.”

Hermione waited until he was looking the other way before addressing Boggart-Snape once again. Realising that she probably didn’t have a lot of time, she grasped the top of his shirt near the collar, and tugged hard, sending buttons pinging off in all directions. She wasn’t one to revel in damaging other people’s property normally but she reasoned that Neville could easily imagine him a new one. Then, she grasped the button of his trousers, quickly pulling it open before yanking down the zipper to be pleasantly surprised by both Neville’s failure to imagine underwear, and his ability to imagine what was easily the most magnificent cock she’d ever encountered. Already proudly rearing its head, she was tempted to go straight for the main prize, but there were one or two other opportunities presenting themselves that she didn’t wish to miss.

Pushing his jacket and shirt aside to expose his entire torso, his trousers now sagging around his knees, she allowed her gaze to linger on every element of his lean, sculpted figure, committing it to memory for research . . . or more accurately to help her later, in bed. Then she stepped up close, close enough for her body to press against his, his thighs against hers, his unyielding cock hard against her belly, her chin to his chest.

Gazing up at him, she raised one hand, tracing her fingers along his rigid jawline before crawling up to rest against his cheek. He turned faintly into her touch. Responsive. And Neville wasn’t even watching. This Boggart knew what he wanted.

Tentatively trailing her fingers down, she grazed around the contours of his mouth. Those deep, chiselled lines framing it with such authority, but the lips soft, gentle buds that undid all of that, that spoke of a deep sensuality that she was only just beginning to understand.

She pushed her fingers into the seam between his lips, easing them apart before levering down to force herself into the hot cavern of his mouth.

“Ohhhh.” A soft sigh escaped her as she felt her digits being drawn into a tunnel of seething, molten warmth. He was sucking on her.

She gazed up at him in wonder, curling her fingers deeper. “You like that, do you?” she whispered.

He sucked harder and her knees almost buckled.

Panting, she finally withdrew, bringing her fingers, slick with saliva, to his exposed nipple. She tipped the pink nub making it immediately gather, smooth and hard. Then she leaned forward, flicking the tight skin with her tongue. He groaned, reverberating against her lips. She found herself chuckling lightly in response, her breath rippling out over her protruding tongue as she continued to prod and swirl.

Then she felt it. The escalation—his hand, on the back of her head, fingers delving deep into her roots of her curls. She responded by opening her mouth and completely engulfing his nipple, sucking hard.   

Another gravelly groan surged from his depths. His erection strained against her stomach, jerking with each of her ministrations until she felt so horny that she suddenly had the insane desire to have him inside her, to use his substantial appendage to pummel away the ache that had been steadily building between her legs since she’d arrived. Instead she began rubbing herself against him, gently grinding his cock between the apposed planes of their bodies. A patch of precum soaked through her top to her skin. And it was at that moment that she realised that she and the Boggart had come to exactly the same conclusion.

His large hands, one on her shoulder, and the other cupping the back of her neck were now pressing downwards, forcing her to her knees. She could have resisted. But she didn’t want to.

Quickly glancing over her shoulder to see that Neville was still facing away, she knelt and found herself eye to eye with the most intimidating mouthful she was ever likely to attempt. She opened her jaw wide, stretching it to see if it was even going to happen. And the Boggart made the most of its chance.

Neville tapped his wand restlessly against his knee.

He didn’t trust that Boggart. Hermione was right, there was something about it. Some strange level of . . . awareness. It was exactly the reason he’d decided not to cast the silencing incantation, but the noises that were bubbling up behind him now made him wonder if perhaps he should have.

_Was someone choking?_

“Is everything okay?”

There was a strange gurgling sound and a loud gasp before Hermione’s voice piped up, “Fine!”

Then some more sloshing and gagging.

_Fucking hell!_

The Boggart started a sort of rhythmic, breathless grunting. And this was followed by something that sounded like a goose being strangled.

“Hermione?”

“Just . . . Wait . . .”

Slapping sounds. Louder and faster.

And a male voice, Snape’s voice, moaning, “Uhhhh . . . subliiime . . .”

_What the fuck?_

Neville whipped around in time to see Hermione tumbling backwards, gasping for breath, face as red as a beetroot.

“Hermione. What happened?!”

There were tears in her eyes.

“What did he do?!” Neville demanded, pulling her to her feet.

Hermione blinked a few times as though trying to gain her bearings, before her face lit up with a huge smile. “He spoke,” she responded hoarsely. “Didn’t you hear him?”

Neville looked at her like she was insane, before taking in the Boggart who was breathing heavily, glistening cock still protruding fiercely towards them.

“Are you completely barmy?!” Neville took her by the arm and shook her a little but Hermione seemed blithely oblivious.

“I told you he wanted to communicate,” she sighed happily, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

Neville stared at her again before snorting in disbelief. “So you did that just to make a point? For just one word?”

Hermione shrugged. “It worked. And it also happened to be a very ‘Snape’ word, don’t you think?”

Neville chuckled a little more as he raked his fingers through his hair. “You’re a real nutter sometimes, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Hermione grinned. “But look at the lengths I go to, to make you smile.” Her large brown eyes trailed down to rest upon the Boggart’s still-sizeable cock and Neville could hold back no longer.

The combination of tiredness and bizarreness were just too much and he erupted into laughter. The Boggart turned away and Hermione used her wand to quickly remove its blindfold and restore its trousers, allowing it to make its subdued return to the cupboard.

Neville gave a final chortle before he wheezed out a tired sigh, his smile dropping away and his face turning serious as he looked at Hermione. “Now, like I said before, if Snape starts doing anything weird after this, I’m never coming back here with you again, do you understand?”

Hermione summoned her jacket from the desk. “What sort of weird? Like making beautiful butterflies with just a flick of his fingers?”

“No, like . . .” Neville looked at Hermione who still wore a stupidly happy smile. He realised then that there was something else going on with her. Something that he didn’t fully understand. Instead of persisting, he shook his head with a wry grin, turning her by the shoulders and shoving her gently towards the door. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

 

 

 


	6. Snape-ing hell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And another short, but important, one. So lovely to hear your thoughts and receive your comments on this story. I adore them all, DSxx

 

Hermione gathered her woollen cloak around her shoulders, drawing it close as her breath materialised, a mantle of steam unfurling on the crisp morning air. Through the thinning plume, she saw the Shutterhawk bank and then circle around to continue its restless glide over the barely shifting waters of the Black Lake. She’d noticed it the day before, its graceful silhouette slipping against a fading sky. And then, since she’d woken early and surfaced too far from sleep to return, she’d ventured across the frosty grounds to watch it again, relentlessly searching in the pre-dawn grey. 

“Still?”

Hermione was shocked to find him right there, by her shoulder. She’d not even heard his approach but now he was standing, very still, tall and dark, barely more than a shadow in the low light. But she could see that he was also looking out over the lake.

“Still,” she confirmed.

They stood together in silence.

“You have to admire his devotion . . . if nothing else,” she murmured as the Shutterhawk swept around for another pass across the lake.

Snape was quiet for a moment before responding. “For some, it isn’t a choice.”

Hermione ventured a look at him, although she could make out little of his expression, just the lightness of his pale skin, the dark line of his mouth, his eyes rendered black tunnels, unfathomable.

“Do you think she’s dead?”

He sighed gently. “Perhaps.”

Hermione looked back. The sun’s arrival was just starting to bleach the distant horizon, bringing smudges of colour.

“It would be easier if he could just let her go, don’t you think?”

Snape shifted a little beside her. “Unfortunately ‘ease’ is not a tenet of their commitment. Or of any commitment for that matter.” His tone was more thoughtful than admonishing. “He will search for her until he falls from the sky, himself. As I said, this isn’t about choice, it is intrinsic to what they are.”

Hermione’s eyes dropped from the sky’s lone occupant to rest upon the inky water lapping at the lake's edge. It made her sad to consider the Shutterhawk’s desperate, and ultimately futile, plight on behalf of its lost mate.

“Would you care to walk with me?”

She glanced up and found that she could now make out, within the frame of his dark tresses, enough of his features to know that he wasn’t frowning. Unusual. Or perhaps it was usual for this new Snape.

She nodded. And so they set off, following the path around the water’s edge, feet crunching on the icy ground, with the sounds of the world waking up around them.

Hermione was first to speak.

“I was surprised to hear that you’re still suffering from the effects of your envenomation. Has it made your return . . . difficult?”

“No. Not difficult.” He lifted one broad shoulder in a half shrug, more expressive again than the rigid, surly wizard she remembered from her earlier years at Hogwarts. “One must simply make allowances—treat it as one would any other condition. Obviously the alternative is far less preferable.”

“Death?” Hermione peered at him, unsure of how he would respond to such directness.

But he took it with what was becoming a rather welcome air of calm assurance. “Indeed, the venom was intended to kill. And so it would have. And would still, but for a fortuitous intervention.”

Hermione’s eyes widened with interest. “What sort of intervention?”

He glanced at her fleetingly before fixating upon a point in the distance.

“Unfortunately the details continue to elude me.”

It was a surprising admission. Hermione frowned as her gaze swept over the blushing lake, a mirror of the rising sun. “So you don’t actually know how you survived?”

Snape continued his smooth, deliberate strides in silence. After a few moments of contemplation, he answered, “I have reason to believe that someone foresaw my demise and took certain . . . precautions.”

“What precautions?” Hermione blurted out the question before she could stop herself, inwardly berating her hard-wired inquisitiveness.

He turned to scrutinise her then, a slow shifting of his black gaze over her, as though sizing up how much he should disclose. Hermione dropped her head to focus upon the frozen crust of the path beneath their feet, trying not to reveal how overwhelmingly intimidating she still found him.  

“I believe that a soul bond may have been performed,” he murmured quietly, his words like sonorous pipes on the breeze. “Such that in the event of my death, the bonded being could ensure that my life force was sustained.”

Hermione felt her chest seize—the air crushing from her. She tried not to betray the intensity of her discomfort. After a few difficult breaths she asked in a small voice, “Who was responsible? Dumbledore?”

Snape withdrew his hands from his pockets and stretched his arms a little in front of himself, as though seeking warmth from the blossoming sun. “No. I am of the belief that it was Remus Lupin who executed the bond.”

“Lupin?” Hermione gasped. “But I thought that you . . . and he . . .”

Snape shook his head. “It was a rather complicated relationship. There was a history. But ultimately we came to realise that we were more similar than we were different.” He looked at her again with a dark intensity. She attempted to swallow but it felt like there was a Snitch lodged in her throat. “Which is why one finds it difficult to reconcile the fact that he failed to take similar measures to save himself. And, indeed, his wife.”

A wave of melancholia swept over Hermione as the shock and sadness of their loss resurfaced. “Perhaps, like the rest of us, he considered that Hogwarts could keep them safe.”

“Perhaps.” Snape’s gaze lifted above the skyline, the word trailing from his lips, all but lost on the breeze.

Hermione saw a wistfulness there and considered leaving him to his own silent reflection, but there was one pressing question that was bubbling away so furiously inside her that she could hold it in no longer.

“To whom are you bonded?” she asked hastily, avoiding looking at him, as though she could somehow distance herself from her words.

After a few moments, Snape sighed. “That has become the enduring problem.” He turned one hand a little in a small gesture of resignation. “Despite my efforts, I have been able to discern neither the man nor creature Lupin has steeped with this burden. There have been . . . fleeting sensations . . . brief perceptions . . . small glimpses into an alternative awareness. And these have . . .” He turned his head to look at her but appeared to decide against it, turning back to the lake. “These have intensified in recent days.”

Hermione caught her breath as she watched the hand that had been swinging casually by his side clench into a tight fist before being thrust forcefully into his pocket. _Fucking Hell_. _What had he felt . . . and seen?_ She attempted to compose herself but her jaw was still aching, and her throat was still raw from the intensity of the Boggart’s efforts the previous evening.

“So it could be a . . . a non-human bond?” she ventured.

“It is possible.”

Hermione’s bottom lip slipped between her teeth as she considered exactly how to word her next question.

“What about a . . . a non-mortal being like a . . . a Dementor?”

Snape looked down then, frowning thoughtfully. “It would be unusual to attempt to bond a soul to a soulless being. One wonders where it would reside. But it is theoretically possible.”

“And could it happen with a . . . with something like a . . . a Boggart?”

Snape’s head snapped around, and he regarded her with an expression of such excruciating intensity that her eyes flickered briefly to the forest behind him, wondering if she would need to make a break for it.  

“No.”

“No?”

“That would have required the presence of a third individual at the point of death—one who desired my survival sufficiently, who feared my loss to the extent that they were able to manifest a creature born of such emotion. There was no one. I had lost my only ally. I was alone.”

Hermione stared at him, at the conviction in his eyes, and suddenly felt her own eyes prickling. But before she could succumb, he suddenly placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face the glowing skyline.

“It would be remiss of me to allow you to miss this.”

The sun was a dazzling ball of fire, a blazing orange orb, just kissing the horizon. With the soft press of him upon her shoulder, and a similar fire burning within, the painted sky began to shimmer before her eyes. She blinked rapidly, her voice barely a whisper. “You come here for this?”

“Every morning.”

“Why?”

He squeezed her ever so slightly. Or perhaps she simply imagined it.

“When one has been as close to death as I have, one learns not to take such things for granted.”

She swung back around to face him. He looked at her intently, his black eyes aflame with the golden sunrise.

Hermione couldn’t speak. But neither could she tear her eyes away, for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Shall we return?” His voice was husky. It melted into her, and only made her want to stay.  

But then he extended his elbow, leaning down a fraction towards her. Gentlemanly. She took it. Slipping her hand into the crook. Warm. Secure.

She sighed softly, knowing that it would only be short lived. It would all come to a calamitous end when he discovered the truth. When he found out exactly where all of those ‘feelings’ had come from.

 

 


	7. What the actual Snape?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just wanted to get another out in reasonable time. I promise to catch up on my review responses soon. DSxx

 

“What do you mean, ‘you’ve worked it out’?” Neville stumbled along reluctantly behind Hermione who was forging ahead, pulling him through the shadowed hallway by the wrist. “Is he a Boggart or not?”

“Yes,” replied Hermione.

Neville huffed. “So why are we—”

“And no.”

Neville stopped dead. “No?”

Hermione tugged on him. “Please. Just one last time. I need to see him.”

“Why?”

Hermione’s brow crumpled in frustration. “I just . . .” Her lips moved but she seemed unable to state exactly what her intentions were. Finally she pulled forlornly on him. “Please, Neville?”

Neville rubbed a tired hand over his eyes before raking his fingers back through his hair. “This is the _last_ time. Right?”

Hermione nodded earnestly.

He rolled his eyes at her pleading expression, before continuing his deliberately slow steps in the direction of the classroom.

By the time they reached the door, he could hear Hermione panting lightly and her lips were bright red, having seemingly chewed them raw in her anxiety.

He shook his head. _What the hell was going on with her?_

The room was empty. The cupboard was where it had always been. But Hermione stopped only a few paces in, immediately turning to him. “Please let him out.”

Neville was alarmed at the desperation in her voice.

He reached out, taking her by the elbow. “Hermione, you have to tell me what happened.”

She pulled away, crossing her arms, obviously reluctant to share.

“I’m not letting him out until you tell me,” Neville stated firmly.

Hermione’s lips twisted into a mute knot before she turned her back on him, taking a few slow steps away.

“Hermione?”

She turned back with a huff. “Snape told me that he’s been soul bonded . . . to something.”

“What? When did he say that?” Neville stared at her.

Hermione gestured vaguely toward the window. “This morning . . . when we were watching the sunrise.”

Neville’s thick brows drew together in a frown of disbelief. “You were watching the sunrise with Snape? And he told you he’s been soul bonded?”

She nodded.

“Fuck off.”

“He did,” Hermione insisted.

“Well it’s obviously a trap, then.” Neville took a few steps toward the cupboard before propping his hands on his hips. “Since when did Snape tell anyone anything? He’s obviously setting you up.”

Hermione shook her head, her gaze dropping to the ground at her feet. “I don’t think so. He’s still trying to figure out who he’s been bonded to . . . I think he might be getting desperate.”

“And why would he expect you to know anything?”

“I think he . . . sensed me . . . felt me . . . touching him. The bond has made him part Boggart . . . or made the Boggart part him . . . or it’s somehow connected the two. And the awareness, the control, must have bled through.”

Neville’s head jerked back as he absorbed the story with obvious doubt. He stared at the cupboard for several long moments before whirling around to face her.

“If that’s true, why are you trying to see him again? If Snape can feel through his Boggart, if he knows everything you’ve done, then why aren’t we staying as far away from here as possible?”

Hermione raked a hand through her curls, scrubbing restlessly as though she were similarly conflicted. “But what if he doesn’t exactly know . . . not consciously . . . and what if he’s not totally . . . averse to it?”

Neville frowned in confusion. “What do you mean? Snape wants you to molest his Boggart?”

“Well he _was_ willing . . . and he _did_ encourage me to do it,” Hermione responded, her jaw firming with an air of defiance.

Neville lifted a hand, as though attempting to halt her line of argument. “Wait a minute. Either you’ve been molesting a creature not sentient enough to understand. Or Snape has been forcing you to get him off . . . knowingly or not. Either way this is pretty fucked up.”

Hermione blinked furiously, clearly trying to maintain her composure. “Please, Neville. I don’t want to touch him. Not like that. I just want to see him. Please.”

Neville paced restlessly. “It feels like a dumb idea . . . dangerous.”

“Just a few minutes,” Hermione begged. “Then we’ll leave. And I won’t ask to come back again. I promise.”

Neville made a low growling sound before finally relenting.

“Five minutes,” he ordered. “Then we send him back . . . somehow.”

Hermione’s face broke into a watery smile.

Neville frowned at her, perplexed about why she was so adamant . . . and so emotional. But he withdrew his wand and directed it at the cupboard. After a final glance at her face, raw lips parted in anticipation, he cast the spell.

The Boggart exited slowly this time, looking about with an air of curiosity as he emerged from the cupboard. His approach was similar, each step infused with a leisurely grace, but Hermione was ready, performing the blindfold spell with a quick flick of her wand before executing a neat twirl to wrap the dark material around the Boggart’s eyes, halting him mid-stride.

She drew a deep breath, exhaling through pursed lips.

It was time.

As she approached, Hermione felt like her chest might explode. Or cave in. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, but after Snape had escorted her back to the castle, she’d been unable to face attending classes, spending the entire day in her room, lying on her bed, thinking, dozing, daydreaming and ruminating. She had imagined these final moments with the Boggart, wondering how she should spend them. But in the end, when she finally reached him, all she could do was surrender to her most overwhelming compulsion, which was to simply slip her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest.

Within moments, she felt him shift in her embrace, and suddenly his arms were wrapped around her, drawing her even closer to him.   

Hermione closed her eyes, inhaling him.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, shuddering faintly in his embrace. “I’m so sorry that you were left to die . . . alone. I’m sorry . . . on behalf of all of us. We thought that you were gone. Please believe me. If we had known, we never would have left you. But we should have tried harder . . . we should have brought you back . . .” She snuffled against his coat. “And I admit that I did try to put you out of my mind. When I heard that you’d survived and were returning to Hogwarts, I tried my best to ignore you, to avoid the guilt that you represented. I’m not proud of that. But you were wrong about having no allies. It wasn’t just Dumbledore. There were more of us who understood the sacrifices you had made. Professor Lupin, for one. And even though it was hard for us . . . with so much fear and betrayal, we were there. And when we saw what had happened, we all yearned desperately for your survival . . . all of us. You said that the soul-bond could only manifest in a Boggart if someone wanted your survival enough. Well it happened. This Boggart is the proof. And I can’t help thinking that I feel this connection to you because maybe I had some small part to play in making it happen, in helping you to survive.” She looked up at him, at his strong nose and gentle mouth. “I just needed you to know that there is someone who cares for you.”

His hand around her shoulder squeezed gently, as he had that morning. She felt so strongly that he understood her, but perhaps this was simply her safe confession, her attempt to assuage her guilt.

Regardless, it felt like a weight had been lifted.

“You know the strange thing?” Neville’s voice came from behind her. “I actually believe you.”

Hermione didn’t move. She knew that she would be dragged away soon enough so she clung on, savouring her final moments.

“I’ll tell you why.” It sounded like he was approaching. “It’s because I don’t fear Snape anymore . . . at least not much. And still he comes out. Looking like that. Every time.”

Hermione opened her eyes, her eyelashes brushing against the dark wool of the Boggart’s coat.

“Maybe he can’t take any other form . . . because of the bond,” Neville continued, closer this time. “I didn’t tell you, but I looked. Before that first time, I peeked in the cupboard and saw him. Then after that I just assumed that Snape was still my Boggart, that I must be as scared of him as I was in first year. But now I don’t think that’s true. I think what I’ve actually been scared of is not him, but maybe my own fear, scared that I hadn’t overcome it, and that I hadn’t moved on. I think I was worried that I wasn’t really brave at all, that I was still shit-scared and hopeless.”

Hermione turned her head to look at him. “Of course you’re not, Neville. You never were.”

Neville shrugged a little. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll never know with this Boggart.” He suddenly reached out a hand.

“Neville? What are you doing?”

“There’s one way to find out.” Neville grasped the blindfold. “If he can’t change into your Boggart, then that proves he’s stuck as Snape.”

With a swift jerk, he tugged the blindfold away.

Hermione looked up into the Boggart’s black eyes for the first time. And he looked down at her.

“See. It can’t change into anyone else’s fears either,” Neville scoffed.

Suddenly, the Boggart’s lip curled into a sneer and his hands moved around to brace Hermione’s shoulders. In one swift movement he shoved her away, causing her to stumble backwards.

Neville looked at the Boggart in puzzlement. “That was weird.” Then he watched as the Boggart turned and sauntered back to the cupboard. “Not sure what’s gotten into him. But at least we’ve proven once and for all that he can’t change like a real Boggart.”

He turned to address Hermione but she had one hand pressed tightly over her mouth and tears were welling in her eyes.

“Hermione? What’s wrong?” He looked back at the cupboard before returning his gaze to her. “Are you saying that that was your worst—”

With a muffled groan, she backed away before turning and running for the door.

The blindfold dropped from Neville’s fingers. “Fuck.”

 

 


	8. A Potential Snape-up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry I’m slow these days. RL is hectic but I’m still here. Another little one to keep things going. DSxx

 

“Hermione?” Neville put his ear to her door.

There was quiet sobbing, followed by a muffled, “Leave me alone.”

He tried the door handle. Unlocked.

Tentatively opening it, he peeked in to see Hermione face down on the bed, her face buried in her pillow.

He closed the door quietly and made his way across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond, continuing to sob.

“I didn’t realise that you . . .” He stopped. There wasn’t a way of putting it that wasn’t likely to make things worse. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

A snort. Followed by more crying.

“Look,” he continued, trying to sound upbeat. “At least we know that he’s still a little bit . . . Boggarty, don’t we?”

The sobbing grew louder. It sounded like she was trying to drown him out.

He placed a hand lightly on her back, between her shoulder blades, feeling her shuddering beneath his palm. “I think I . . . I think I understand how you feel. Because sometimes I feel the same way.”

She made a bit of a choking sound before lifting her face a fraction off the pillow. “About Snape?”

He mouthed the word ‘fuck’ and rolled his eyes at himself, wishing he’d chosen his words more carefully.  

“No . . . I mean I . . . I know what it’s like to worry about being alone . . . because of what happened to your parents.” Her face dipped back into the pillow where she sniffled softly. “We’re sort of similar in that way. Except that I lost mine a long time ago. But I still feel it.”

Hermione rolled her head despondently from side to side. “You don’t know how I feel.”

Neville gazed down at her and sighed. She was right. He didn’t know. But he knew that he was responsible for her current unhappiness, even if it had been unintentional. They were good friends. They’d been through a hell of a lot together. He would just need to find a way to put things right.

“Alright,” he murmured, lifting his hand from her. “Just know that I’m sorry.”

Then he left the room, locking the door behind him.

***

“Alright, Hermione, I’m going to let him out now . . . okay?”

“I don’t care.”

Neville turned to see that she was now sitting with her head resting on the desk, forehead propped on her folded arms.

“Just one more time,” he gently cajoled her. “You don’t want to leave it like that, after what happened last night, do you?”

Hermione shook her head defiantly.

Neville held in a sigh. He’d had serious trouble dragging her there. Even after confiscating her wand, it had been a battle. She’d spent the whole day in her room and even though it was clear that the last place she wanted to be was here, in the Transfiguration classroom again, he didn’t feel bad about forcing her to come. He was certain that things would be different this time. At least he hoped they would be.

“Alright . . . here I go . . .”

Dragging his eyes away from Hermione’s bowed head, Neville pointed his wand at the cupboard. But there was no need to unlock it this time, the latch was already undone. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the door open.

There was a pause. Then from the darkness emerged Snape. He looked particularly displeased this time, a deep frown slicing through his brow. Neville’s eyes flickered to Hermione who still had her face buried in her arms. He turned back and shrugged apologetically, tapping his finger against his wrist to indicate that it had taken longer than he’d expected to get her there.

Snape stretched his neck to the side with an audible crack. Obviously it had been cramped inside the cupboard. He wasn’t a small man, after all. In fact, Neville was still shocked that he’d even agreed to do it.

“Here he comes,” Neville intonated loudly for Hermione’s benefit, then he nodded at Snape, encouraging him forward.

Hermione didn’t respond.

Neville took an involuntary step backwards as Snape loomed closer. Despite their conversation only hours earlier, one in which Neville had managed to blurt out just about everything about the Boggart and the probability of a soul bond, whilst making the interactions that he and Hermione had had with the Boggart sound far more innocent than they had been, he was still extremely intimidated by the dark wizard. Snape had hostility down to a fine art and, even though he seemed to have mellowed since before the war, and possibly as a result of the Boggart bond, the ferocity of that frown was still an instant trigger to make one shit oneself.

However, despite the galloping gait of his heart, Neville’s main concern at that moment was still Hermione. He desperately wanted to undo at least some of the damage that had been done the previous evening. And he happened to feel strongly that the only reason Snape had agreed to do it was because of her. The mention of Hermione’s name had been the point in their conversation that he’d gone from looking like he was ready to blast Neville from his office to raising an eyebrow with obvious interest.

And he was actually here, after all. Clearly unimpressed. But here.

_But for what purpose?_

She wasn’t paying him any attention at all. In fact, she could easily just up and leave at any moment.

“Hey look, Hermione . . .” Neville’s eyes flickered nervously between Snape and Hermione’s bowed head. “I’m going to do the Ginny hair on him this time. It’ll be a right laugh.”

“I don’t feel like laughing,” Hermione moaned into the desk.

Neville glanced at Snape. Judging by his expression, he didn’t feel like laughing either.  

But Neville forged on. He needed to make her engage, otherwise all of this was for nothing.

“How about I take his clothes off?”

That’s when he heard the crackle. Jerking around, he saw the static prickles leaping like tiny bolts of blue lightning from Snape’s palm. He was getting ready to hex his bollocks off.

Neville raised his own palms in an attempt to placate the wizard who had already demonstrated that he was still devastatingly powerful. “Okay . . . no . . . scratch that . . . it looks like that won’t be happening, after all.”

Snape glowered at him, his fingers twitching menacingly.

“Hermione, please,” Neville begged, rushing to her desk. “Can’t you just give him another chance? I think it’s going to be different this time. I really do.”

“Why would it be different?” Hermione cried, lifting her head to glare at Neville through bloodshot eyes. “Why would he feel any differently about me?”

“Because that wasn’t him . . .” Neville said slowly, in an effort to make her understand. “That was you. He was just showing you your fears.”

Hermione huffed and abruptly stood up. “It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” Neville stepped around to stand between her and the classroom door. “Please, just give him another chance.”

Hermione looked over at Snape, her face contorting in pain. She shook her head. “I can’t . . . I can’t see that look in his eyes . . . not again.”

Neville finally gave up with a deflated sigh, shoving his wand back into his pocket. It was no use. She had clearly been too badly burned the first time.

“You’ll need to put a blindfold on him.”

Neville looked up at her. She was hugging herself tightly, still extremely fragile, but there was a hopeful edge to her expression.

Then he looked at Snape. It felt as though the wizard’s black gaze could easily bore a hole into his brain. So, for his own wellbeing, he snatched his wand back from his pocket, conjured a blindfold and wrapped it around Snape’s eyes, if only to bring a little relief.

“I need you to go now,” Hermione murmured. “I need to be alone with him.”

“Um . . . well . . . uh,” Neville stammered. “That’s probably not . . . I actually don’t think that’s the . . . the best idea.”

Hermione stepped up to him. “Please.”

Neville licked his lips nervously. “I really don’t think . . .”

Then, over her shoulder, Neville saw the blindfolded Snape give a single emphatic nod towards the door.

“Well . . . I suppose it’s . . . it should be okay, as long as you don’t . . .”

“Don’t what?”

Neville’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. _What the fuck could he say?_

Shaking his head dumbly he simply grabbed Hermione by the hand and squeezed it, trying to convey everything that was churning around like a pit of terror inside him. She smiled faintly in response.

_What the fuck was he doing? What would happen if they . . .?_

Snape’s head inclined again in the direction of the door.

“Fuck,” Neville muttered. Then he turned and strode away, turning the door handle and, with one final worried glance back at the room, yanked it open and exited with a bang.

Hermione stared after him. _What was that about? Had he wanted to stay? And watch?_

Removing her wand she locked and warded the door. Finally she turned back to the Snape Boggart, standing quietly, arms by his sides.

This was it. The last time. With him. Alone.

 

 


	9. Holy Snape!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whew, another small window in which to write. Thank you to the kind peeps who keep me going. I love you all, DSxx

Hermione approached, her hesitant steps the only sound in the quiet room. He was so perfectly still. Yet she’d never known anyone to convey so much power in the absence of motion. It was palpable—in his stance, the rise of his shoulders, the flex of his heedful hands, even the attentive crook of his little finger.

He was far from relaxed. But perhaps he was feeding off her own apprehension.

_Did he still harbour remnants of their interaction from the previous evening? If so, when he sensed that it was her, would he simply leave again? And would that rejection pierce her as acutely, as completely, as it had the night before?_

She felt herself wincing, shrivelling inwards, wondering why she was already willing to put herself back into that place again. Perhaps it was because this would be the very last time. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t be with him again. Not like this. And so, as Neville had suggested, it was probably worth taking the risk for a better result. He might even stay to the end, until she was ready to release him . . . for the last time.

He was almost within touching distance. She caught the faint twitch of his jaw, the microscopic convulsion of his fingers.

The Boggart was tense. But so was she.

She was struck again by the compelling sense that, on some level, through some intangible microcosm of association, they had somehow become connected. The tug in her chest, the way he wound her gradually but inexorably towards him, made Hermione feel very much that a part of her had been indelibly bound to this creature. It was why the rejection had struck her so deeply. She understood that the Boggart’s actions had simply been a manifestation of her own fear but she’d somehow convinced herself that their connection was stronger than that, that it would somehow override whatever innate sense the Boggart had of itself. It made no real sense, but neither did this, what she was doing to him now, her fingers slipping under his coat to feel him, sensing his warm flesh through the soft weave of his shirt.

He twitched again, his abdomen this time beneath her fingertips. It was accompanied by a quiet inhalation. She looked intently at his face, or at least the parts visible around the blindfold.

 _Had he suddenly turned shy?_ _Did he need more reassurance from her?_

Withdrawing her hand, she stepped forward and proceeded to slip both arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest, her ear to his heart. She could actually feel its bold thud pulsing against her, so much stronger than the previous evening. And there was something else. A scent. She had never noticed it before but it came now in subtle drifts, mouth-watering motes of cloves and cinnamon. She inhaled deeply, turning her face to nuzzle against him.

He didn’t move to hold her in return, to reciprocate the embrace, but it didn’t matter. She increased the pressure, squeezing him until she felt the tide of tension in his muscles gradually start to recede. His release eased her own anxiety, her body resting more fully against his firm planes, melting like soft wax into his contours.

Allowing one hand to drift around to his side, she grasped his hand and lifted it to cup the curve of her cheek. She continued to rub against him, the tip of her nose grazing into his palm, nudging upward to trace the contours of his long fingers. Her lips and damp breath ghosted over the fleshy whorls, feeling them flexing gently, in turn, against her.

“You should have seen him,” she whispered, her lips nipping a soft trail over the distinctly herbaceous residue that seasoned his crevices. So incredibly authentic. “Your soul bond. He was utterly . . . spectacular.” Her lips curved into a smile before she ventured out, a brief flicker of her tongue, sliding between his fingers, tasting him. His torso tightened against her. “Maybe you felt it,” she continued. “Maybe you feel everything he does, as he feels you.” She slipped her tongue out again, sliding it along the margin of his middle finger until she reached the end and sucked the tip into her mouth. He groaned.

After a few fervid sucks, she tilted her chin, allowing his wet phalanx to pop free. “These hands . . .” She canted forward in reverence, slicking her lips, the side of her cheek against his fingers, trawling her own saliva gratuitously over her skin. “The way they milked her—the _Sweet Water Seductress_. The way he fingered her . . . just to make a point . . . just because he could,” she breathed. “I can’t stop thinking about it, about him. If he can do that to a plant, what could he do to a woman? What could he do to . . . me?”

Suddenly she captured his digit again, stroking it firmly on the underside with her tongue before sliding forward, engulfing his entire length until she could feel him in the back of her throat. She held him there and sucked, rocking her head from side to side. She already knew he liked it like that. At least he’d liked it when she had been on her knees, taking each fierce thrust as completely as she could.

She whimpered, closing her eyes against the intensity of the memory. But this time she wanted him somewhere else. She wanted to feel that keen sting and those driving blows directly between her legs, slamming into her core. She knew it was wrong—there was nothing she could do to ease her conscience, but her desperate need to be fucked by him had overwhelmed any sense of rational thought. She wanted him totally unleashed, no holding back—she needed to feel the aftermath of this final encounter imprinted onto and inside her for as long as possible.

Finally releasing him, she looked up to see his soft lips parted, shallow breaths rushing in and out. But still he didn’t move to touch her.

_Didn’t he want her anymore?_

Her face crumpled. There was something wrong.

“I’m sorry.” She lifted a trembling hand to his cheek. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. It’s wrong. Because you know, don’t you?” She traced her thumb back and forth along his jawline. “You know the truth—that I don’t really want you. I want him. I want Snape. You showed that to me yesterday—you presented me with his rejection and it hurt like hell—like it hasn’t hurt in a long time. Since the war . . . since my friends . . . my parents . . .”

Feeling the mounting dejection and sorrow enveloping her, she finally allowed her head to drop, resting against his chest as she sobbed quietly.

“I thought he’d changed. He felt so . . . different,” she rasped. “I thought he might have changed his mind about me. That maybe he’d even forgiven me . . . for leaving him. I hoped he might be able to feel the connection that I feel . . . with him . . . with you.”

She fisted his coat in anguish. “I just thought that he might want to—”

Then she felt it. A hand. Strong fingers, tunnelling into her hair, tracing soothing circles into her roots. She drew a ragged breath, fear and hope clawing at one another, tearing at her throat. But as the tension rapidly drained away, lanced from her scalp by his expertly probing fingers, she felt the fear give way to wonder. His touch was incredible, so intensely therapeutic, rippling through her skin in long shivery swathes, soaking into her depths, healing her as if by . . . magic.

Jerking her head up, her mouth dropped open in surprise. The blindfold was gone. Those impossibly black eyes were drawing her in, dragging her down, submerging her in their fathomless depths. This was it. The end.

And then he kissed her.

The shock stopped her mind. And her heart. The lips that captured hers weren’t chaste or cautious, they were firm, hungry, seeking as much from her as they were looking to provide. Hermione felt her paralysis finally release and she responded with her own greedy desire, gorging on his open mouth like forbidden fruit, unlikely to be offered again.

It was far longer into this feasting than should have been reasonably expected that rational thoughts began to permeate the buffer of lust that had enveloped her brain.

_What the fuck was going on with this Boggart? And why had he stayed after removing his blindfold?_

She continued to maul him, fuelling their passionate exchange with lips and tongue and teeth and anything else she could attack him with, but there were deeper thoughts, more complicated ones, scarier ones that she desperately tried to shut out. Finally, agonisingly, they managed to hack their way through to her consciousness.

_Could it be . . ?_

She moaned with frustration, almost shrieking into his mouth as she tried to drive the thought away.

_Was it at all possible that this wasn’t . . ._

She latched onto him again, feeling like she could draw blood.

_. . . the Boggart?_

The final manifestation of that suggestion instantly parched her throat, froze her jaw. She stopped mid-maul and, shivering with dread, slowly pulled away.

His lips were red and swollen. The line of his jaw was rigid. But it was his eyes, smouldering with black fire, that threatened to undo her now, rendering her little more than a pile of ashes.

Then he surprised her by quirking one dark eyebrow. “You just thought that I might want to . . . what?”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed, a strangled squeak emerging but nothing more.

He smiled then. A deliciously subtle hitch that gave him that air of boyish charm once again. Hermione was transported back to that moment in the classroom, the deviousness of his intent, the simmering lasciviousness. He was a complicated man. He always had been.

But this was on a whole new level. The fact that he was here. Now. Kissing her. Letting himself be kissed. Putting their harrowing past behind them.

She could see nothing else for it. The way she was feeling, the immaculate strain that he had placed upon her physically, mentally and emotionally, she considered it time to establish just how complicated and lascivious he really was.

“I just thought that you might want to . . . fuck me.” She delivered it with a bold conviction that belied the lurching gait of her troubled heart.

The hand on the back of her head began to knead gently again. “Do you wish for me to . . . fuck you?”

His touch, those words on his succulent lips, drew her into a heavy-lidded stare. Gods, he was so fucking hot she could hardly see straight.

“Yes . . . I want you to fuck me,” she replied thickly. “Like a Boggart.”

He frowned then. “Like a Boggart?”

“Don’t worry.” She grabbed his hand and guided it down between her legs. “I’ll show you.”

 

 


	10. Get a Snape-ing room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I need to thank Ailosacath for the excellent chapter title. I’ve finally managed a longer chapter for all you lovely patient people. I hope it was worth the wait ;) DSxx
> 
>  

It turned out that Snape didn’t need any guidance in Boggarty sex, or any other sex tips at all for that matter. In fact, within moments of her wedging his fingers into the sweltering cleft between her legs, he had already taken the lead in their exchange. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how he managed it but, in the process of resuming kissing her, plumbing her depths as deeply and passionately as she’d ever thought possible, Snape was somehow able to remove her jeans, jumper and shirt, as well as his own coat, leaving her shivering with a thrilling mixture of exposure and anticipation.

One strong arm cradling her back, he lifted her easily and carried her bodily to a large desk nearby. Hermione only knew of their destination when she felt the cold ridge of it against her backside, but she was oblivious to practically anything else, fixating instead upon his mouth and attempting to know him through it.

It was such an intimate exchange, to taste one another in the way that they were, to share their secret interiors so openly. And she happened to find him absolutely delicious, surprisingly so, not at all bland and stale as she might have imagined him to be. And he seemed to find her equally appealing, if the amount of time that his tongue spent inside her, exploring her with deep moaning thrusts, was anything to go by.

It was well known that Hermione was intense—confirmed by practically everyone who came into contact with her. But Snape was infinitely more intense. In fact, as he probed and plied her, his supple lips and plunging tongue fierce with desire, she could hear herself responding with what could only be described as a torrent of frenzied whimpering. It was overwhelming. He was overwhelming. And when he pressed closer, forcing her legs apart, leaning her back ever so slightly for even more direct access, she wondered how much more she could take before she would need the relief of his, equally overwhelming, cock inside the aching depths of her pussy.

But, with a sense of mounting wonder, and more than a dash of relief, Hermione quickly became distracted by the sense that Snape was capable of channelling his soul bond. Either that or he just happened to be particularly Boggarty in his sexual inclinations. Whichever it was, his next actions were not the least bit timid, his hand gliding gratuitously along her inner thigh, threading around the clingy contours of her knickers, until his thumb was nestled in the damp cleft of her pussy lips. He held it there, rotating ever so faintly, causing her swollen clitoris to strain forward, trying desperately to be involved. Then she caught her breath as the tip of his tongue entered her, beginning to stroke the underside of her own tongue, gentle revolutions, exquisitely restrained and perfectly synchronised with the undulations barely grazing her clitoris. He worked her like that until she began to shudder with the strain.

Then he tore her knickers off.

In one swift motion, they were gone, the shock causing her to cry out. But his mouth was there, smothering hers as his fingers instantly found her generously lubricated opening and, without hesitation, slid home.

“Unnnhhhh,” she moaned, her head pitching backwards as he began pumping, delving into her with deep purposeful strokes. “Oh, Gods.” Her pussy automatically clamped onto him and she felt herself being shunted backwards and forwards, her backside squeaking crudely against the desk. She propped an unsteady hand behind herself, trying to find some sort of solid purchase in order to ride him. Eventually she gripped the side of the desk, lifting herself a little to allow her pelvis to curl, meeting each of his bold, insistent intrusions with her own desperate thrusts. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she moaned, long and deep, feeling his strong fingers pumping harder, pushing her gradually, inexorably, toward a place of no return.

Then he stopped. And withdrew.

With a gasp, she lifted her head to confront him but what she saw caused a small groan of need to slip between her lips instead. His fingers, coated with her glistening secretions were resting lightly against his lips and he was inhaling deeply, eyes closed. It was so reminiscent of the classroom—that memory she had trawled over countless times, wishing it was her—that she knew this moment would imprint upon her mind forever. And when his eyes opened to penetrate her and he whispered in words softer than silk, “Sweet Water Seductress”, before opening his mouth to engulf both long digits, she thought her twitching pussy might well spill over on the spot.

He took his time sucking every drop from his immersed digits, his eyes never deviating from hers, until she found herself swallowing when he did.

“Sublime.” The word drizzled like warmed honey from his lips. That same word the Boggart had used—the only one he’d ever spoken. But before she could consider it further, he lunged at her, his mouth crushing into hers as his fingers simultaneously plunged back into her seething depths.

An escalation from the previous seemed impossible but somehow he managed it. Tilting his hand to a more vertical angle, he now targeted a specific spot, stimulating her front wall in a way that made her screw her eyes closed against the mounting sensations. She was no longer rocking. She wasn’t doing anything at all except hyperventilating and unsuccessfully trying to fortify herself against the intensity of what was going on inside her. Her legs were already beginning to shake. As his hand sped up, she jerked her head around, delivering a sharp nip to his jaw, like an animal caught between encouragement and instinctive self-preservation. She had never felt more out of control on the verge of orgasm in her life. 

And yet his words, when they rumbled like the ocean in her ear, were as calm and commanding as ever. The same words that had accompanied her to orgasm alone in her room.  

“It is time for you to come . . . for me.”

She couldn’t even respond in the affirmative this time, her mouth frozen open as her entire body shuddered on the precipice. His fingers slowed to almost stillness, holding her over the edge. Then he gradually began moving inside her, beckoning, curling his fingertips against her front wall, commanding her to ‘come for him’.

Reaching up, she fisted his hair in one hand, her chin burrowing into her chest as a strangled cry emerged, a staccato rhythm wrung out by the impact of each explosive convulsion. The pulses that ricocheted through her pelvis were so powerful that they simultaneously ejected small surges of fluid, impossible to contain, but a sensation that made her release feel all the more visceral and extreme. His continued agitation of that spot inside her while his other hand, clamped around the back of her neck, held her in place, prolonged her fitful jerking for far longer than any orgasm she’d ever experienced until she collapsed with a dying cry, boneless.

And then he held her.

Pulling her to his chest, he clamped his arms tightly around her as she choked and gasped, as though she’d been only moments from drowning.

It had only been an orgasm and yet she felt like she’d been struck with the Cruciatus, her body continuing to hitch and tic with the aftershocks.

Finally, after a prolonged period of feeble moaning and clinging to him, she dared to look up, trying to focus from under heavy lids.

The corner of his mouth lifted a fraction. “Was that . . . Boggarty . . . enough for you?”

Hermione’s breaths were still laboured, her shoulders rising and falling as she considered him.

Then she gathered together the most defiant smile she could muster. It was foolhardy, particularly considering how pathetically weak she felt. But it was also in her nature. “Almost.”

He lifted one eyebrow and his chin at the same time. He didn’t even need to say ‘ _Oh, really_?’ as the rhetorical question was clearly imprinted on his features.

And when he lowered his nose again, levelling it at her as his intense gaze focused, bringing her squarely into his sights once again. She felt her breath catch.

_What the fuck had she just asked for?!_

With a brief flick of his hand, he rendered the desk top malleable, the hard surface sinking like a cushion beneath her buttocks. Then he guided her backwards, laying her down upon it before dragging her to the edge and spreading her legs.

The last thing she saw was the glint of fire in his dark irises, the determined set of his jaw, before he descended, burying his face in her pussy.

“Uhhhh, Gods!” One flailing hand struck the side of the desk as the other clawed at his shoulder.

Her entire nether regions were still singing after her previous orgasm and now the sensation of his tongue lapping at the glaze of juices that had been wrung from her had her writhing and moaning with a mixture of humiliation and ecstasy. It was so raw and carnal. So animalistic—as though he were somehow cleansing and restoring her, and revelling in the process as much as she was, brief enthusiastic grunts attesting to his enjoyment.

Then, when the cool damp between her legs had been replaced entirely by a coating of his own essence, as though that region were now marked as his, he began priming her once again. It started with her clitoris, his lips latching onto her swollen bundle as his tongue swirled and stroked. After a few slow, languorous undulations, he began to move his head rapidly from side to side. It pulled and pushed at her sensitive nub in a way she had never been able to achieve while masturbating. Soon she was jiggling uncontrollably beneath him, her hips on a hair-trigger that seemed to detonate every time he ground in close.

Her hand instinctively moved to the back of his head, clenching his soft tresses, encouraging him despite the fact that she was already trembling from his efforts. It didn’t escape her that this was exactly the position she’d imagined him in while masturbating, although now she realised that her imagination hadn’t come close to the intensity of feeling he was able to induce in her.

And when he suddenly shifted down, spreading her pussy folds with his fingers before plunging his tongue inside, she made it clear just how deeply she felt his impact, releasing what could only be described as a gut-clenching growl, drawn from some place deep within.

It might have sounded like she was starting to channel the Boggart, herself, but Snape appeared to be spurred on by her primal vocalisations, delving his tongue even deeper, nudging her clitoris back and forth with his nose.

Hermione felt herself building again until, with a throaty whine, she realised she was almost there.

“Uh . . . Professor you’re going to make me . . . unnnhhhh.” Her head rocked back and forth in disbelief. She didn’t even have something sensible to call him. _How could she call him ‘Professor’ when his tongue had almost taken root inside her most intimate opening?_

She strained forward, glimpsing his, notoriously stern, features now steeped in her glistening folds and the visual was enough . . . more than enough. “Yessss,” she hissed as she came hard.

Her thighs clenched but he was ready, pressing her open, holding her down as he continued to work her with his tongue throughout the clutching waves of her orgasm. Her hand on his head fisted and released over and over until she shuddered to a panting stop, then it relaxed, gently smoothing his locks down, acknowledging the delicious relief that now immersed her, thanks to him.

When he finally lifted his head to look at her, she leaned forward, propping herself on her elbows. “I take it back,” she said, with a weary smile. “That was more than Boggarty enough. In fact, that was . . . sublime.” His eyes shuttered slightly as he dragged a palm across his chin. There was something there, in his eyes. Something . . . unreadable. “But I have a sense that there might still be some . . . unfinished business?” She nodded at what could only be described as an obelisk tenting his crotch. His gaze heated up once again, burning her anew. “I’m ready for that when you are,” she murmured breathily, wiggling her buttocks in preparation for the onslaught. “As hard as you like.”

He growled. A low rumble in the back of his throat making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The animal was well and truly alive. An anticipatory shiver tickled down her spine, shaking out any remaining fatigue.  

With a casual flourish, he removed his trousers, tossing them aside as his erect cock ticked back and forth like some sort of erotic metronome.

Hermione couldn’t suppress her tiny whimper of excitement. She’d been worried that Neville’s imagination had been just that. But projecting magnificently toward her now, lining her up like a heat-seeking missile, was the same delicious cock she had sampled only days earlier.

He sauntered forward with a lithe grace that would make her want to fuck him if that weren’t already overwhelmingly imminent. Then, pressing a splayed hand across her inner thigh, pinning her open, he guided his cock between her legs. Hermione watched as his eyes lifted and locked with hers, dark cauldrons of simmering lust that made her feel more desirable and more desired than she could ever remember. And that sense was only heightened by the solid pressure that now urged her to open, that pressed her to accept him, that sought to fill her with fierce pleasure.   

Spreading herself wider, she reached down to touch the unique blend of soft and hard between her legs, guiding him gently into her resistance. She was already incredibly swollen, but even if she’d been limbering up for hours, she doubted this would ever be anything but a tight fit. She’d thrown down a pretty brazen gauntlet earlier but was secretly glad that he was giving her time.

Rocking his hips a little, he leaned in, causing her to shudder from the acute pressure and exquisite stretch. It was beyond anything she’d ever felt before, making tears spring to her eyes.

Suddenly he stopped.

Blinking rapidly to clear the blur, she saw his tender expression and managed a reassuring smile. “Don’t stop,” she murmured. “Please.”

Brow cinching into a frown, he grasped her ankles, propping her legs up so that her heels rested on the edge of the desk, knees bent. Then he reached under each leg and gripped her by the forearms. She naturally grabbed his wrists in return, locking them into the position of the unbreakable vow.

Both arms firmly braced in his, she closed her eyes, finally allowing him to enter. _How did he know? How could he tell that she simply needed his reassurance?_

Moaning with ecstasy, his long, slow thrusts lifted Hermione to what felt like a new plane of awareness, one where she sensed an inexplicably cosmic level of connection with him, with this wizard that she was now blissfully adoring from under her lashes, wondering at how it could have come to this in such a short time.

His vocalisations were deep and breathy as he stroked into her, and the acute desire that was etched into his features made her wonder if he might well feel the same.

Instead of speeding up, he altered the angle of his pelvis to dig even deeper, pulling her firmly into him by the arms. He was hitting a spot deep inside her, awakening what felt like a dormant organ, nudging it into life, making it spark and flare with a wellspring of power, previously untapped.

She loved that he could do this to her. That he could open her up to parts of herself she had never known. It felt almost too good . . . too perfect.

“Are we connected?” she whispered.

“Of course.”

“Have you always known?”

“I have . . . sensed it.”

She swallowed. Breathing was becoming difficult as bubbles of fear tried desperately to surface. She swallowed again before gathering the courage to ask, “Will we stay connected?”

“I may be that fortunate.”

She stared up at him.

_Him? Fortunate? To be connected to her?_

It was too much.

Yanking her wrists out of his grasp, she pushed herself up and wrapped her arms around his neck, covering his jaw and mouth with needy kisses. He gripped her around the waist, lifting and holding her as he continued to thrust.  

They writhed and moaned together, one seething, flexing body, two heads drawing from one another.

Hermione tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him down to murmur urgently against his cheek.

“It is your turn to come for me now. Inside me. I want to feel you. Please.”

His rasping breaths turned more strident as he surged into her.

“Come for me . . . Severus,” she urged.

He cried out as he came, his hips stuttering and jerking against her buttocks as his tightly embedded cock shot pulse after pulse of hot seed into her deepest recesses.

She clung to him throughout before straining up to kiss his trembling lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he whispered.

“For fucking me like . . . you.”

 

 


	11. Thank Snape for that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, here we come to the end of what is probably the fluffiest fic I will ever write. I really hope you have enjoyed this brief departure from the usual. I have to give credit to two readers who inspired parts of this chapter. 
> 
> KIT-10 not K-9 for the Boggart’s wonderful name, and Fbunf for what is, without a doubt, the funniest review I have ever received. I repurposed a line from the review in this chapter. I think you’ll work out which one it is. Severus enjoyed it too :). 
> 
> I’ll be back again soon as I have a new idea brewing away already. Thank you again so much for your kind reviews, despite the fact that I have not always been that great at responding. Your words make all the difference to me managing to find time, often late at night, to write - so I can’t thank you enough. Until next time, love to you all, DSxx

Hermione woke with downy hairs and soft skin against her cheek. It took her a moment to realise that they weren’t her own, belonging instead to the incredibly comfortable hunk of wizard beneath her—the one she had apparently fallen asleep on after relocating to her bedroom and engaging in two more bouts of delicious, pussy-pounding sex during the night.

Nuzzling her way up his neck, she pressed sleepy kisses against his jaw until his head turned so that she could sample his deliciously sensuous lips once again.

Suddenly a thought broke through the fog of sexy memories and she pulled away from his mouth to voice it, “What did you do with Humphrey?”

Snape blinked in puzzlement, frowning down his nose at her.

“The Boggart,” she added, realising that she had used her pet name for him.

He snorted in amusement before lifting a stray tendril of her hair with one finger and tucking it behind her ear.

“He’s safely locked away. In my wardrobe.”

“Your wardrobe?”

“Mmmm.”

“In your room?”

“That is generally where one keeps one’s wardrobe.”

Hermione’s lips curled in to a mischievous smile. “Perhaps you and I and Humphrey could become better acquainted sometime . . . in your room?”

His finger trailed down her cheek as he looked at her with curiosity. “Do you really consider it wise to be intimate with a Boggart?”

She shrugged. “Not wise perhaps . . . but it was still rather . . . exhilarating. Although not nearly as exhilarating as the real thing.” She looked at him shyly from under her lashes.

His mouth lifted at the corners as the tip of his finger brushed her lips.

“And I’d take precautions,” she added.

“Precautions?”

“Well I would hardly want to fall pregnant to a Boggart, would I?” She grinned. “Can you imagine the look on the mediwitch’s face when her worst fear emerged from my vagina?”

Snape laughed then. It was a sound she’d never heard before but it seemed to come surprisingly easily. Deep and rolling, it filled her with warmth, especially when his arms tightened around her as though he considered her special—precious even. She laughed too, her trill over his bass so natural that her heart soared as they shook together, until she collapsed upon him with a satisfied sigh.

He continued to embrace her throughout the comfortable aftermath, his firm grip suggesting that he had no intention of letting her go. And as she lay there, riding the gentle cadence of each breath, she considered the jumble of thoughts that had started churning about in her head.  

“Why do you think he did it?” she asked finally, her words muffled a little by his chest against her lips. “Why did Professor Lupin choose to bond you to a Boggart? Was it a wind-up do you think? Some sort of prank?”

Snape paused a moment before answering. “Perhaps he chose a Boggart because, as a non-being, it is essentially immortal.”

“True,” Hermione responded thoughtfully. “I prefer that explanation.”

“I prefer yours,” he said.

She looked up then and saw the truth of it in his eyes. He had definitely changed. This was a different man to the one she had grown up with. The bitterness was gone, and he clearly wasn’t looking to waste his second chance at life on old grudges.

“Whatever his reason. I’m pleased he did it,” she murmured, pushing her way up his body until her lips were hovering above his. “And I’m glad that I was present at the right time to become . . . entangled.”

“As am I,” he responded, warm sparks flaring in his eyes once again. “I am indebted to him . . . for both.”

Hermione sank down then, her lips gently capturing his, her mind setting sail on a blissful tide of joy, both losing and finding herself in him. With him. At last.  

***

“Alright?” Neville plonked down in the seat next to her, snatching a bread roll from the basket on the table.

“Neville,” Hermione hissed, grabbing him by the arm. “I’ve been searching everywhere. Where have you been?”

Neville bit off a chunk and spoke as he chewed, “I asked McGonagall about getting a new practice Boggart and she happened to have one in a chest in her office.”

“And?”

“And I’ve been practising.”

Hermione shook his arm in exasperation. “So tell me! What was it? What did it turn into?”

Neville gave a disgruntled shake of his head. “You wouldn’t believe it. It turned into a fucking snake—into Nagini.”

“Oh, shit,” Hermione muttered.

“With three fucking heads! So I couldn’t chop ‘em off.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“I’ll say.” He took another bite.

“So what did you do?” she urged.

“Well . . . I changed it into the first thing that came to mind after spending all of that time with Snape in the buff.”

Hermione’s brow creased in puzzlement.

“A giant cock. With three heads.”

“You didn’t!” Hermione yelped.

“I did.” He grinned proudly.

“And what happened then?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“McGonagall told me to leave. Something about an urgent appointment or something.”

“So what happened to the three-headed cock?”

Neville raised his eyebrows knowingly. “All I can say is, the Boggarts around here are getting a hell of a lot more action than the rest of us.”

“Oh no, Neville, don’t,” Hermione choked, before convulsing with laughter.

“Which reminds me,” he continued, turning his knowing gaze on her. “Can I assume from your current 'glow' that you managed to patch things up with the other Boggart?”

Hermione had to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes before she could reply. “That’s why I was looking for you. I needed to thank you. For what you did . . . for Snape.”

“So you worked it out then?”

“Yes.”

“What was the give-away? You didn’t touch him did you?”

“There might have been some touching,” she answered with a coy smile. “But I must say, he gave as good as he got.”

Neville snorted, shaking his head. “So is he going to stop being a prick to me now?”

“I doubt it.”

He grinned before shoving the rest of the roll in. “That’s okay. When he sees my giant three-headed cock, it’s him who’s going to be intimidated from now on.”

***

They stood at the edge of the Black Lake, two dusky silhouettes watching the Shutterhawks dip and glide, an aerial love affair woven in graceful arcs over the obsidian water.

“He found her,” Hermione whispered, tears of joy shimmering in her eyes.

“He did indeed.” Severus slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “And I’m certain he will do everything in his power to ensure that he never loses her again.”

Hermione smiled, blinking adoringly up at him before resting her head against his side. As one, they turned, and slowly started down the path toward the first hopeful rays of the rising sun.

 

 


End file.
